he crept in stealthily
like the first chill wind on a hot
summers morning
beads of sweat knead deep into
my furrows, if that was love
it was the last thing i'd expect

holding my heart in his hands
the coil of fingers trace colour into
every breath, inh-ale, exh-ale, inh-ale;
if rainbows had a name before
we existed, it would have been his
ale, pale blue ale

there is a culture in Tokyo
where men collectively dress and
suit.it.up.
beneath the glamour lies a vast
arctic tundra
ale smiles, my heart blushes

light envelopes as i open my eyes on
the plane bound for goodbye
my heart, a locomotion
derailed with its wreckage left behind
the comforting sounds of solitude
stung my ears with such fortitude
ja mata ne

that was the colour i recall
the night he said goodbye
wine glass swirling
arms lifted but its contents never
touched his mouth

that was the colour i remember
the moment i saw
his hand on her hips
matching curl on their lips
matching bands on both left ring fingers

that was also the colour i last cherished
blade to soaked skin,
dilated blood vessels
a temptress taking flight, her heart a broken intoxication

i love the rain it reminds me of you
every droplet a tender touch
at times, a storm or two
terrifying passion
you used to call us
lovers
we were always more than mere
man and woman

it keeps raining in these parts of town
raindrops falling causing
ripples on the ground
like my thoughts just going
round and round
"repetitive motion"
you sometimes whispered
my eyes drawn to you but
yours always to the ground

if irises are round
trace our line of sight in
perpendicular motions
i will be waiting in between
those moments your vision clears
anticipating the silent drop when
our eyes meet
turning two points into one

you are the architect to your mind
the sculpture of your body
the painter for your emotions
the writer in your stories.

the world at your fingertips
trace high up to the sky
connecting stars into constellations
a reflection of your life.

the world is a canvas
an ocean bed full of mysteries,
so built up your collection
works of art like a
masterpiece.

a chaos world we live in
repeated shattering of our
perfectly constructed lives
to mould us,
like waves
battering against rocks.
evolution they call it.
what a mess we become
at times. a work of art,
i reckon.
your beauty; breathtaking
our existence; astral

there are sunken cities
off the pacific ocean.
places we never heard of,
people we will never come to know.
an entire island,
swallowed into depths of darkness;
stuck in time forever like a broken clock
with only one face for the world.
if she were an island,
she would have been atlantis.
her life a compilation of fiction and hypothesis.
archaeologist have searched,
many in vain, for civilisation,
for prevailing proof of her existence.
like any of this all would matter.
because believe me when i say
that i have spent four years
submerged in the atlantic ocean
and the only thing i found
is that there is
no greater distance than
loving figments of her
ghostly shadow.

in september i learnt
that the dead lives
among the living but not all
sees

when i was fifteen i once played
the ouija board
i said goodbye but
the spirit never left

my mother never understood my
incessant insomnia
she never saw the dreams
of strangers in my bed

she does not hear the voices
of people long gone
yearning to be heard
once more

it is said that in order
to live
you must first learn the
meaning of death

every night i made my bed out of
suicide notes and
broken bones and
overdosed cough mixtures

i once sat on the windowsill
a friend i once called a friend
helped me tight
while i cried

a love i cannot love told me
not to wake up and
regret
it would be too late by then

this is what i learnt in september
that some of us die in the
suffocation of the
overnight casket

and if i forget to come home
one night
i hope you read the signs clearly
this time