the old moon smiles at me
every night as I walk on the lonely beach
where hundreds of ships has washed ashore
and thousand feet have walked upon
cold wind blows from the waters crashing
on the white dull sand
bringing promise of freedom,
a sweet yet sickly feeling erupts in my stomach
I doubt whether my wishes will come true.

whenever the winds blows, I look at that way,
but never towards my house, or the town,
because all I want to see is a faraway adventure
just within reach, if I could grasp the star
that sits silently and still in the navy blue sky
beckoning me to follow and find
my own journey, as long as I run away
leaving nothing but the last traces of
my light footsteps,
wanting them to be washed away by
the coming tide.
just like how I hope all memories
of this place
of my entire existence here,
will be erased,
as I need room for new acquaintances, dangers, exploration,
feelings, discoveries, tastes, smells
sights, sounds to come and stay

when I leave to travel where
The Wind Points That Way.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
Every syllable was the pitter patter of water on glass panes.

But the feeling he gave me was hurricanes on concrete.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
The fluidity of the liquid would fill the crevices in my mind to the very tip and remind me that I was not alone.

You do not have to read the meniscus to look deeper into my being.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
He formed his words and dragged them quietly across pavements, reminiscent of the deep tint of the clouds and the rumbling of thunder.

But when the sun came out,
I did not feel radiant
I felt alone.

I packed you perfectly
like one packs organs in ice
to preserve them--
to keep the memory breathing
in a box of souvenirs from our six years
fragmentally put together,
until I'd need to relive them again.

I scanned our pictures like x-rays,
the bones glowing silver linings,
blurred and blue.
You always light up.
In any recollection,
you will always be the clarity
I connect to.

I have my moments-- Don't you too?
Nothing is what I thought it was.
I feel you pulsate like blood
under a bad bruise
I packed you perfectly.
You didn't move.

We came
together,
joined at the hips
and the lips.

With our words we shared stories
and with our mouths
we opened up to each other.

We were aware of each other
for quite some time,
at least me of you,
but we shared only a few
memories
and only two
nights.

One was spent in the cold.
On a couch,
with alcohol
and sweat
and nicotine
and only one blanket,
but you had me to keep you warm,
and you kept me plenty warm.
You left early in the morning,
and I kissed you before you left.
I tried to go back to sleep,
but it's hard to sleep when you're smiling.

The second time was warm,
in a bed,
with marijuana
and nicotine
and my best friend in the next room.
We kissed
and we kissed
and we kissed
and we slept
and then we kissed some more
and in the morning it was my turn to leave early,
but you kissed me before I left
and I hope you were able to sleep.

You're out of sight
but not out of mind.

Sometimes there’s this emptiness in the soul
With which the saddest songs would not heal
And the soft kisses of tissues would not soothe
The burns of the acidic tears
Something in there
Cannot be resurrected
Nor stimulated  
With a thousand voltage defibrillator

Most of the time,
the rotting flesh is still alive
The heart still beats
The EKG device monitoring
Each stubborn peak and trough

Sometimes
In this blind bleakness,
There is still a small spark
An iridescent bubble that refuses to be burst
And with quiet determination,
There is a defiance to live
And sometimes
This small act of defiance
Is the greatest courage of all