sometimes when I fall asleep midday, I light a candle.
when I awake for moments in between,
it is still flickering around me
on the dark walls of my room,
long after the sun has decided to take its coat.

it is a silent guard,
and my mother  will always come up and remind me
that it is dangerous to have such guards,
and she'll blow air quickly, tsking the smoke as it hits the ceiling

I am a wrinkle in a blouse;
I am a hand under a bridge;
I am the last leaf to fall
before the autumn goes.
I am both the observer,
and the unobserved.

The trees stood there amassed,
huddled like a tribe on the edge side.

Facing towards the water,
they looked forlorn,
as if they had just sent a burial out to sea.

A spark,
A mast,
Raised,
A ripple,
Stretched,
A fog,
Melting through,
The dirt,
Yells,
It pulses.
We pulse

The night is young,
And for us small ants,
The river is very shallow.

So thin to allow,
Our weightless bodies,
To skim across the surface.

Invincible to,
Being pulled under,
By the lulling current.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, when you do not know of it,
I like to look at you up close.
The hair on your face, under your chin,
Like little crop circles that developed in the night.

When all we know
is set aflame,
make foot prints in
the coal.
The soot,
a war paint,
midnight fair,
on your jutting
cheekbones.