Dear self,
In losing you

Days seem blurry
Nights seem scary

Heart grows weary
Eyes turn teary

I lost the merry
I lost the power to write my story

~
Holding court at the Zanzibar,
they looked on good nights
like Egyptian Queens, like Ancient Babylonians.

On not so good nights,
they resembled Brassaï's Moma Bijou -
"fugitives from Baudelaire's bad dreams",
and even then they looked magnificent.

Identity wasn't something you nailed
yourself into in late adolescence.
It was a trick of the light,
and if you were to avoid
burning yourself out,
then you simply let the flames
lick over you
and turned the ashes into kohl.
~

I swore not to write you,
but I cannot sleep
because I envy your pillow

How it carries
your curls, dreams,
and tears too

Your old bed sheets get
to inhale your scent while
I suffocate from your absence

I still remain in mine
burning, yearning,
dreaming of you

I will set fire to your bed,
so you would rest your
head upon my chest

Lay with me tonight
till you find your peace
on someone else’s

You left tiny pieces of yourself
on the dance floor last night
I only noticed because
when I began to sweep
they were still shining
bright