My eyes are fixated on the glow
of the moon tonight. The halo
of the night shines immaculately

here on this spot where you left
everything. I think about
how she illuminated everything

with only a few glory rays borrowed
from the sun, as if she, though late,

chiseled your name good on this
stone that marks the spot.
where we used to be. This spot

where you left everything
under earth—decayed,

like dead stars. I see the light
of the moon, full bloomed daisy so
immaculate. I left, believing

these stifled whispers.

Often times I find myself
wandering in an empty field.
I am alone, and I can feel
the grass caressing my ankles.
It was familiar

the first time I have done this,
since that origami swan took you,
flew you off in a distance where
even  eight minutes of light isn’t enough.
Familiar

like lying is always the only fun
I can ever have. Though
the place is dim,
the sky is not an empty
space. Salt sprinkled,

I see the stars sparkle,
the way your eyes do.

I trace your name, connecting
each dot of light, and, yes,
this has to be the last letter, hoping
that you’ll see it this time—

even when eight minutes
of light travel isn’t even

enough.

After delicately finishing the cup
of coffee, (for fear of scalded tongue,) it’s time
to do the errands

for today: washing the ***** dishes
from last night; cleaning the mound of laundry:

the bloodstained shirts, ripped jeans, and *****
strewn hoodie. It was all from last night. I had these things

to do. Instead of the usual staring outside,
having my soul one with the wind. It was

white. I had forgotten about that shirt. The one
with the bloodstained. Like ketchup,

poured clumsily over at family dinner. Family?
Doesn’t even know that. After mixing the bleach

with the water. I wrote each of their names
on that languid surface, having it rippled a thousand
times. I smiled as I break reflections. There are

ghosts now surrounding the house. Why
should I play with things here? I am alone.

I do not have to worry about the kitchen
knives flying like jets, or the plates, breaking
into incoherent pieces like stained glass

fragments.

Today is a clear sky. Not a thunderstorm. Not
a cloud. Nothing but clear

sky.

And today, I learned how to silence
each dead voice trapped in my cranium.
Break them one by one like

Fragments.

Though summer is starting to fade, and we wait
for the first drop of rain to ripple our reflections,
here we are; still on hold of each other’s hand
like perfect jigsaw puzzle pieces, connecting to form
a picture. I see the sun over at the horizon, and
I am thinking of the day dying, how it burns
the horizon into an orange then eventually
a violet. I’m thinking about how this will all

to fade. By the time your eyes laid on this
poem, pupils dilated like the first time you saw
me, I’ll be off in another shore, waiting. But for
now, stand still. Fail to crumble. Grab a beer
if you had to.

There were more than tears forming rivers
on my cheeks on my mind when we consider
this trade. I think of that time when we took
a dive on the beach. How we enjoyed so much
that we let the water devour us. We did not mind
about it being our grave. We let ourselves
sink. And for whatever reasons, our souls
try to escape our body and be one
with the wind. I enjoyed it. I am also
thinking about how we sit at the shore. Waiting
for the sun to set, see how the horizon becomes
the ocean. Salt scattered stars and burned out.

I am thinking about those moments: on what to fill
the stubborn hinged photo album.

I am thinking about how many
of your hair had fallen out since we met. How many
people had you stared at despite being beside me. And if
you had kept the toothbrush I left at your house
for the entirety of our relationship. If you had swallowed
another man’s tongue. Or  if you had found
me as another tool to skin you good. I am just asking
you.

I am looking at the horizon again. The sun is setting,
burning back the light it once shared with this face
of the world, off to another so that others may know
him. As the orange turn to violet, the first drop of
rain lands on my palms. And I know, I’ve been with
the shore for far too long to see our reflections ripple
a thousand times than meant, fading
to oblivion that the ghost that you will become.

And then there’s this poem, if it’s a poem at all,
becoming the fragments we had become,

Incoherent

like everything, like our fingers now. Maybe this is
more than creeping you out. Maybe this is
more than enough to fill gaps of that stubborn
photo album. And maybe this will be a

ghost often you’ll find banging on the walls
of your mind and of your throat. Like the way

you do on me.

Mounds of papers where you once confessed
about everything lie on the ground. They created

a stifled cemetery where each of your part
is buried. Scalded tongue. Ripped skin. Torn
ligaments. Everything.

These are the things I mourned
every morning despite having a cup of good
coffee.

Because midnight is already hiding underneath
the bed, and the trash had enough **** to eat,

I let them scatter here. Each, a tombstone
to remind you that you were here and that

midnight still hides from the light
in which it says that the darkness
is much more easier to be a home;

where being blind is more of a blessing
than a curse, thinking that maybe, a hint
of darkness would suffice the emptiness

because the last letter is still walking with you:

your smile, an apology letter for each of the time
our skin would kiss

again.

The strips of meat sizzle on the pan
as I carve the bread for this meal today. Look
at the eggs: how perfectly cooked they are:
a golden yolk, as if the sun, burning
back the once ash day. Then there’s midnight

that hides under the bed: invited by the sweet
aroma of the coffee swirling in the cup. There’s always
that tease, playing with your nostrils for you
to get up to say “Good morning.” It’s never likely

about the day per se. But about that selfish
act in which gluttony lures you to your silver
plate, your eyes, focused

on whatever it is that is glowing, like the sun
asked it to glow. I am smiling for

even this warmed my heart. I stared
blankly that I forgot about

the bacon, cooked once to perfection,
but now a black strip to mimic
the electrical tape. It’s bacon. My stomach
will fix it, anyway.

But then the leftovers told me

that this is more than a selfish act. More than
tiresome beginnings to commit the same,
more than feeling the heat of asphalt
on your bear feet. This is about

finding someone, smiling next
to you on the dining table, then

laughing about the midnight
that crawled back to the darkness
beneath the bed. This is for

sharing spaces.

The flower wilts like
a swan’s neck. the sky has not
forgiven her yet.