I saw strangers smiled
in the wilderness of streets.
Then I missed myself.

My varicose veins started to swell day by day, mother.
How do I make the pain go?

Well, periwinkles are anesthesia.
It will help you numb the pain
if you make sure to keep
the stench within.
So keep some in a bottle.
And son, from now on
Get a skindeep sunlight surgery.
And forget the tea.
I'll make you a cup of rain for the morning.
So get well soon, okay?
You better be.

Day by day
I metamorph
into a tree.

The smell of periwinkles
helped me a lot when
I was a child
in a way that the stench
makes me think that the world
is just as beautiful.

The smell of periwinkles
still helps me a lot
now that I've grown and
still growing
in a way that the stench
makes me remember
how beautiful the world
used to be.

I looked through the seas
with the way I look at you—
skydeep and everblue.

A lilybud blossomed
into an illuminating light
as it took a leap of hope
of its last fall of life
away from the heart
of the hearth
we call sky.

An iridescent flash
in the darkest of the dark
ready to grant a wish tonight.

I wish I could fling the door open
so you'll see the window
I told you about.

We could watch the street posts and tree sparrows on cable wires extending to the horizon of watercolor skyscapes
from there.

But I'm concerned of what
you would think when you'll
also see the vase and
a dead tuscan sunflower
I've plucked sometime
in a long-ago summer.
Don't worry I am not a creep.
I can even make you
some paper orchids
if you like.
I might put one on your ear
if it's fine. Just
give me some time.

Don't mind those
tattered jeans and floral socks
stenched of petrichor
and scattered like autumn leaves
all over the floor.
That's how I've been. Just
give me some time
to clean.

But then that is why
I'm all afraid
you might dislike me
for I've built up lies
and messy secrets
to hide a past
and all.
There wasn't even
a single window
on that wall.

You might not understand
I'm like a lichen-blotched tree
inside a lake of jade.
More like a
dead tuscan sunflower
inside a vase. If so
you don't have to
stay longer in my shades.
But don't just leave me
like a summer
in a while.

You might not understand
why I live
in a house of no windows.
But maybe you won't open the door.

A poem is a sound.
Its meaning becomes a lyric.
And if you want to feel it,
feel it like a raindrop
that ripples through your soul.
And if it's raining within now,
it's because you listened.