There are stories in your eyes.

I never told you how
sometimes I fell asleep
with the thought that you
were perhaps the moon-

always disappearing
with the dawn.

my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.

walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was  a comforter:
demons were embedded.

yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?

one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance

"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams

it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding

I'm in love with someone's daughter
living in the shards of a broken home
Cutting herself on two year-old letters
These are moments she can't fake;
reasons to feel alone
So used to abuse, her tears start to shake
I hold her close as her head starts to ache
"I love you too much,
so I can't let your heart break."
She said, "I know you love me,
but you've made a mistake."

I never meant for anyone to be my pulse.
I promise not to step on your feet
if you teach me how to waltz.

"her writing depresses me" he says

my voice quivers, falls up toward
space and crashes
down
against the sea-salt waves. my voice

s-s-s-stutters, repeats the first
syllable five times and once again
for an even six, repeats, repeats,
repeats. my voice is

quiet and every teacher i've
ever had calls on me with a
"speak up!" but no one ever
listens.

writing is the only voice i've ever known
you will not take that from me.

If only, you could understand my love
We would have loved a million times
If only, you could understand my love
We would have hugged a billion times
If only, you could understand my love
We would have fought a thousand times
If only, you could understand my love
We would have celebrated all the time
If only, you could understand my love
We would not have wasted this precious time
It’s been 8 years
I am still waiting, hoping, dreaming
If only, you could understand…

My son runs, wrapping arms around
my nebulous waist.

"l love you, Mom!"  He squeezes tighter,
as if letting go would be his black hole.

"I love you, too, " I squeeze back, absent mindedly.  (Where is the cream? I need coffee.)

"I love you more!" he breathes, without pause.
He gazes into my eyes,
searching my planets.

"Oh no, that can't be true," I retort.
I forget the coffee, his eyes are starlight.

"I love you to infinity!" he exclaims,
staring harder.

He wants to sail the Milky Way with me.

"Me too," I reply, and remember oxygen tanks.

I'm speaking in light years, and I hope the sound waves will catch up to him.

His face cracks into a million years of forever, before he lets go,
dancing across the universe of our livingroom,
his solar system intact.

At least for now.

Dear Diary,

It seens that I appear to be stuck in my own mind. Trapped perhaps, in this horrible thought process of mine.
Been locked up in a cage of hatred towards myself. What was it that I had done for a concequence like this one?
Seeking answers never given. Searching for clues never placed.
But like a maze, found a reason to keep walking till freedom was found at last.
But no, not in this case. Yes I did find the exit to this maze and I had a reason to do so. However freedom was not a reward.
It was much more than that.
It was an answer to all that had been questioned. An answer to a prayer laid to rest. A message in a bottle reached me, as it was read a smile drawn upon my face.
No smile had meant more than the one drawn that instant.
Drawn, in fact, by an artist himself.
Never had I called myself to bear such beautiful smile but he, had drawn it with the hands of an artist a genious.
An artist whose canvas was a human body, the skin of those who craved that sting in return for a memory. A work of art.
This artist managed to draw the most incredible smile upon my face that I had ever laid eyes on. Impressive I must admit.
But how was said artist capable of this?
With words painted in the back of my mind as he spoke, bursts of joy flew.
An artist who once loved this selfish being and who had permanently drawn her name on his own personal canvas with a beating heart.
An artist she calls superman.

-Kathia Mariana Landeros

Unrhymed, unrhythmical, the chatter goes:
Yet no one hears his own remarks as prose.

Beneath each topic tunelessly discussed
The ground-bass is reciprocal mistrust.

The names in fashion shuttling to and fro
Yield, when deciphered, messages of woe.

You cannot read me like an open book.
I'm more myself than you will ever look.

Will no one listen to my little song?

Perhaps I shan't be with you very long.

A howl for recognition, shrill with fear,
Shakes the jam-packed apartment, but each ear
Is listening to its hearing, so none hear.