I give the kiss of death
to a fuming roll of paper,
puffing out the siphoned life,
shaping gossamers of ourselves
in the air. But the wind,
it messes us up.
The only artist it knows is itself.
It's magnum opus is the perpetual
molding of cumuli of ephemeral and temporal.

Once more, I **** a breath of solace,
and release a hint of relief.
I cast my oneiric world:
soundless, so my fears and worries will remain unspoken;
shadowless, so my courage and love won't remain hidden.
We take form once more,
but again displaced.

But the smoke will not roam across space.
It will drift to me, to choke these reveries,
and banish them through violent coughs.





Our togetherness is nothing more
than an ethereal form.
The wind, after all,
gives the kiss of death.

Hasten, sun, hasten
your walk across peaks and troughs,
the drag of your golden cloak,
the slant of every shadow,
the traverse of many sheens.

Hasten, sun, hasten
but slow down
on your brilliant slice,
on your orange bleed,
on your warmest death.

the eyes of the city stare back
while i stargaze at them—
yellow, orange, and white scattered around.
they only flicker at my eyes' blink.
and the gaze of the city pierces my heart.
right past the wispy fog of its cold embrace,
right past the silent cries of the eerie night,
right past the waning hopes for a better tomorrow.

the city's mountainous terrain is swathed
with haze, as always—a night
suchlike an endless table
where a giant card is lain.
not five of clovers, nor an ace of spades,
not even a King of hearts.
but a thousand diamonds!
one removed from the standard deck,
stashed with the box and the jokers,
where ironically there is no laughter
but judgment.

i stood there from nightfall to daybreak,
trying to read my future,
hoping to find you in it.

The galaxy is white—
a seamless pulp,
where we drain inks on.
On unscribbled portions
or in between monochrome lines.

The blots and smears,
and the succession of strokes and curves
are the stellar projections
to aesthetic calligraphies.

We did not know
that the stars were in our hands,
or at the tip
of whatever writing instrument we held.

We did not listen to the sounds
of galaxies crumpled by the hand,
or of stars burned to ashes by flames.
These sounds, after all,
remain inaudible in space,
so should all hatred and criticism.

Some believe that
some squander,
and that some conserve
the fluid of immortal witnesses
in a universe of astral imprisonment
that bears prejudice and judgment,
but boundless freedom.

A spilt ink in a galaxy, but an ink in a galaxy.
Varying durations of immortality,
but immortality nevertheless.