Yesterday
My classmate died
In a hit
and


run.

I scour the local obituaries,
And yet I cannot find his name.
Though I knew little of him,
I have little reason to forget him.
Perhaps, if I grow older
I will stand at his grave
And somberly ponder
At that epitaph of squandered youth.

Ka か
Ke け
Ki き
Ko こ
Ku く

I write,
Over and over again,
As if chanting silently
To ward off
Forgetfulness
And a growing sense
Of impending mediocrity.

Rain pooled into a puddle
On the sidewalk as I pass
Reflects at me a distortion of
All the things
I should have been.

I aspire to become
The person
That my dog thinks I am

To be read
In itself
Is a victory.

It is hard
To think critically
Of your own poetry.
It is difficult to improve
And upsetting, perhaps
When there is little success.

But, be calm
To have been seen
Is itself
A victory.

11 years ago
I was walking on top
Of a small wall
Along the sea.

I tripped
And fell
And smashed the back of my head
On a sharp rock.

I came to
With my father and mother
Looming over my face.
Now that I think about it
It was pretty convenient
That they would find me there.

I have had a good life,
But to me,
It has been too good.
I have done nothing to deserve
Anything that I have.

I think back on that time,
Walking on that sea wall,
And wonder if the last 11 years
Have all been a dream
And I really am
Still by the sea
Seconds away from dying.

I believed in her like
She was the woman I loved
Who told me that she loved me
Or
The suit and tie
Telling me that they would contact me again
After that last job interview
Or
The manager who told me
I did a good job
And I was indispensable

I killed you,
Mrs. Mosquito.
In another life,
You could have been a dog
And we would have been friends.
But in this one, where
I am still me
And you were still you,
All that was different was
You were a mosquito.

As I stare at your corpse
Which is now just
a splat of my own blood
on my left forearm,
I only think of how meaningless your death was
and maybe how mine will be as well.
You were a mosquito
And perhaps I am one too.

She was short
Short haired
Short tempered
Short lived.

If you forget, that is fine
We all forget sometimes
If you forget, that is okay
It's easy to forget someday.

If you remember,
Do you look back sometimes, too?
Do you remember,
I ponder.
Well, do you?

Each step
Upon the pavement
Feels as though
I am lightly tapping
The keys of a piano.

Each step I take
Is another note
In a clumsy melody.

For a second I am convinced
That there really is music
And now it is my turn to play.

I feel nostalgic
For a long winter night
In Vancouver
Years ago.

A pair of gloves
Shared between
Two pairs of hands.

There is no warmth
Like the warmth
Of another.

I think again of a dear dying friend,
Whose life has been lived and is now going to end,
I wonder what dreams that she still had to meet
And of all the promises she cannot keep,
And locked away somewhere, inside of her deep,
Are there still some secrets that she alone keeps,
I wonder of promises she cannot keep,
And burdens that she insist she alone keeps.

A promise of peace and of present pain felt
To dissolve in the dirt of the Earth is fulfilled.
The living are dying, but they shan’t forget
Of friends whom have left them before their own end,
Of friends whom they cherished and loved till the end
With only condolences left to extend,
I think of once more of a dear dying friend.

I don't want to tell her anything
That's what makes it fun
To have it all said in my eyes
For me,
That's what makes it fun.

When she looks at me,
I think I see
An angel in disguise,
But whats she sees
In a guy like me
Is nothing to her delight.

But that's okay
I don't care,
To be loved is not the goal,
To have her even look at me
That's what makes it fun.

I love this book.
Journey to the End of the Night
by Louis Ferdinand Celine.
I will never reread it.
It was enough to read once.
I have tried rereading it.
I could not.
It is too tiresome.
I feel this way about so many people.
I think fondly of them,
But will not miss them,
Perhaps they think of me sometimes
And maybe remember me somewhat favourably,
But they will not miss me.
Oddly, I find this comforting,
Perhaps it’d be better if we forget each other,
So somewhere we can meet for the first time again.
I long to read Journey to the End of the Night for the first time again.

Even if I am a disgrace
I have aspired to be more.
If I never amounted to anything,
It is not my parent’s fault,
If my life turns out meaningless,
It is only because I am frail,
I was never unlucky,
There has always been someone helping me,
I am responsible for my own unhappiness.

The drizzling rain
Is of little comfort
But the soft pats against my window
Feel somewhat encouraging.
However,
The blanket of grey clouds,
Extending into the horizon,
Give off a sense of endlessness,
Such that the hopeless torrent
Of past mistakes
Will be forever present.
My life would be easy
If I could throw myself to the ground
And beg for forgiveness.
Perhaps someone should have been born instead of me,
But I cannot bring myself to say
That I am better off dead.

If I can live honestly from now on,
Even if I never amount to much,
I will have a live worth living.

Do your friends
Still talk about me?
I wonder.

Of all the things I e’er done,
The talks I miss the most,
Of which to night would not succumb,
Or morning force repose.

Of all the things I’ll e’er do,
I hope once more to say
The words which I had come to find
Were absent yesterday.

For all the things I wished I did,
I wish that I said less
As silence is much better heard
Than nonsense, I confess.

The moonlight splinters through the blinds
To show in darkness one can find
The place where one might ought to be,
Yet absent, unbelievably.
Regardless of whom she spends her nights,
The same moon which reveals he
Is the same one which had shadowed me,
Painting us in equal light;
Strangers of the lingering night.
Whether from the covers of a stuffy bed,
Or in winter cold instead,
It matters not, as you can see,
It is for him, not me or he.
And softly into the night we sink,
We three, with all the time to think
With who it is we want to be
Wasting time thus carelessly,
As he and I dream up the same,
And she thinks of a different name,
The night deepens, the moon shines forth
A missing person, a missing fourth.

And thus it ends,
Essentially,
We always look for someone else,
Across the street, behind a door,
Around the corner, on the next floor,
It matters not, I must admit,
No effort which one may submit
Can change the fact of where we are,
He and I, him and her
Separated by a comma in a poem,
Separated by a thought in someone’s head,
Clumped together in a warm cafe,
Lonely in each one’s own way.
I am certain, I am sure
He and I are equals in nothing
Except worthlessness.

Better jealous, better hated, better
Dismissed than be allotted false praise and joy.
A man is his own pride, his own defeat
He ought to know his place and worth; his price.
Besmirched with equal fault, with equal blame
Not one may stand pristine nor pure, alike
The worst we deem in those disdained at heart.
I flinch when I recall the days before
I saw in each a flicker of contempt
As if it could no longer be concealed.
An honest life is all I want to lead;
No pittance due, no pity earned, no worth;
To hate myself and be hated by them.

I am justly inadequate
no one knows my name
the strangers I pass by
all treat me just the same.
They never ask about my day
or if I feel okay,
we all look on in silence
repeating yesterday.

I am justly inadequate
I work hard to be not enough
my conscience is never heavy
but my heart isn't up to *****.
My hands are warm and loving,
callused, hard and rough,
a willing heart without a reason
just never has been enough.

I am justly inadequate
I stare out windows thinking that
if I could just be someone else
then I would get a chance
to be the man I could have been
but as I am, I know I can't.

I am justly inadequate
no one knows my name.
And every time I try to laugh
I can only muster shame.
I try to smile,
once in a while,
to trick the gloom away,
but I still know that I am
inadequate any day.

Whenever I am around others, I often think of how I should treat a stranger.
Do I treat them with equal disdain and caution?
Treat them with a consistent coating of hatred?
A hatred that transcends bigotry and racism
To achieve misanthropy in its purest form?
Or rather compassion, a struggle to understand despite regrettable conduct?
More lately, as I have grown older, I have opted more for compassion.
As a child, I often had sympathy for others,
I always found something in my mind for someone to be sad about,
And in my heart, I ached for them.
When I had become older, I thought this as a means to look down on others,
And it must be stopped,
Thus sympathy was replaced with complacency
Which flared, sometimes, into anger.
This anger developed into distrust, which blossomed into disbelief,
And this disbelief gave birth to disdain.
And for a while, I could hate someone just by looking at them,
Or by witnessing them in the midst of an unsavory act.

But as an old man now,
I opt for compassion.
As a child, I believed that people should be mourned for,
As a young adult, I believed that people should be hated,
And as a dying man, I believe that people should be forgiven.
For years, I have wondered what it meant to be compassionate.
Was offering a seat to an old lady on the bus compassion?
Was tightly clasping hands with your partner during ******* compassion?
Were the two inclusive or exclusive?
Did you have to tightly clasp the hand of the old lady on the bus during ******* to show compassion?
Was compassion tough love?
Was compassion for the greater good?
Was compassion being fair?
Or was compassion allowing someone to cheat?
Was compassion the courage to tell a lie?
Was compassion the courage to tell the truth?
Was compassion knowing when to make a compromise?
Was compassion all this and more?

I think of her occasionally, on this long train ride,
On this journey to the end of the night.
What I remember of her
Is the calm sun with the thunder following it,
I remember what I wanted to do
And I remember what I did not do.
I remember her fondly,
Free of hatred, free of lust,
Free of any interpretation other than someone that I had loved.
And although there are many ways to express compassion,
This is mine for her.

It was never my fear that, upon first seeing me,
She would deem me inadequate and reject me entirely right there and then.
It was the coming thunder,
When formalities are finished and our feelings are confirmed,
Where she thinks herself content with my company,
That shook me to my foundation with anxiety.
I cannot help but think,
That even in contentment,
A seed of doubt may find fertile soil in her heart,
And sprout a sudden longing,
A quiet panging,
Which reverberates through the days that grow longer and longer in length,
With each echo leaving a more and more profound impression.
And when this panging starts to get louder,
Until it is akin to church bells in her heart,
It will rouse her from her sleep-like state of contentment,
And have her find that something feels a bit off.
At first, she will not be able to put her finger on it,
But slowly she figures it out;
My images of her set in marble turn into plastic,
Lines of poetry begin to smudge as if written in cheap ink,
Letters begin to fox with its yellowing paper feeling dated to the touch.
And she suddenly realizes in the midst of others,
That this is not enough for happiness.
And then, by chance,
She misplaces a single glance,
Only to find something new
Something beyond contentment and I.
The skies begin to darken and grey storm clouds roll in,
And the thunder strikes,

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnt­hunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk
Perkodhuskurunbargg­ruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititill­ibumullunukkunun

This, I fear above all else.

She looms large;
Takes charge;
Lives fast;
Thinks last.

She feels sick;
Isn’t?
Acts worse
Dies first.

Not I, shall claim, to know what is now next
After the summer sun subsides and sets
Below the roads which all scatter from here,
It is not I who knows, not I indeed.
Not long ago, a woman sat atop
A bed without her clothes, counting copecks;
A cotton shawl rested upon a chair,
And her kerchief neatly folded by it.
Her blue eyes hum a gentle song that day,
They swell in agony, as another
Man leaves quietly from her room with speed.
Her heart beats pleadingly, as if to ask
Forgiveness from her God, the supposed
Holy Father, who sees all his children
In equal love and, I should add, disdain.
How her chest heaves in despair over what
Had just transpired, she sobs as if to beg
the Almighty Father to look away,
Although her God could have delivered her
From such a life, He opts to watch instead;
How merciful He is, a God of love!
Outside she knows no respite from her deeds,
Her neighbours look upon her with such scorn
And snicker as she passes by in shame.
A sinner she is baptized as, as though
It had been her own choice to live this life.
In haughtiness, they may proclaim, that God
Gave her a chance to choose the life for her
And it was she who chose to be a *****.
Yet how could she desire to live like this?
Her father was a drunk and did not work,
Her mother died when she was but a child,
And her new father’s wife is consumptive
With three children to look after herself,
Not one of them can work, not one but she!
And what shall she do as her family
Cries out to God for generosity?
Shall she go to school as her mother dies?
And if this is the path to go, from where
Will she draw funds? What money does she own?
Should she ignore a child in need of food?
If not, what job, what place, would employ her
With wage to feed a family of five?
In fact, what place shall pay her more than what
She needs if she should live a frugal life?
What choices she has been given, look at
The life she has to choose! To live forever
Upon the cost of others on the street,
As beggars dressed in rags and dirt who will
Without a doubt, perish when winter comes,
Or delve in sin, in order to provide
What seemingly that God cares not to give.
What grand a choice dear Sofya now has!
The gravity of her next decision
Shall now make a martyr of a maiden
Or make now a harlot of a hero.
And thus she sobs, as she is robbed of heart,
Of soul, of hope. Yesterday she had woke
To such the same, and more to come,
If only God, and I do beg thee God,
That she will be delivered from such strife.
For now, for her, today, it seems, that the
Next day shall bring not but the same for her.
However I claim not to know what’s next
After the summer sun subsides and sets.

The subtle turn of neck
Exposed skin, collarbone shown
Shoulder, slender, hand, in air
Slight smile, red lips
Dimples that crunch the corner of cheeks
Crossed legs; hairless
Soft ankle, gentle foot
The arching bridge
Of the sole
Timid fingers, curled
Ready to point
Ready to pluck
Heartstrings.

Company; friends
Distance
It is unfair.

I think I would understand
If it were outwardly cruel
But such heartaches speak
In quiet undulations,
Hard to catch inclinations,
A half-moment,
A heartbeat,
A second too late to take back
The things you did not say
When they asked about
The weather or your new shoes.

The shoulder shrug
The empty bus
The hands held
At a distance
Amidst crowds
For anyone to see
It was enough to make you think
Why be so honest
How can someone be so brash
Without saying a word.

It comes suddenly
After it’s easy to realize
They never looked
They did not listen
Or even read
It did not occur because
Value is relative,
It does not matter,
People are busy
Although you may write.

DIGESTION
When the temperature is raised
Particles gain kinetic energy
And collide at a greater frequency.
The more particles that collide
The chances of a reaction occurring increases.
How many times have elbows rubbed
In hallways, no matter how crowded
Yet nothing happens,
Nothing precipitates,
Not even a cough
Or a wandering shot
From the corner of their eyes.
People pass
By or away
And yet hallways are still full;
Full of thoughts of other people
Full of longing
Full of the people who are missing.

USE OF ELECTROLYTE
The addition of an electrolyte
Reduces the coulombic repulsion
Produced by a solution’s ionic atmosphere;
An electrolyte allows ions to interact more freely.
A full bus is void of tension.
A stranger who writes letters everyday,
But crumples the paper before finishing
Is completed by the person
Who eagerly awaits a text on their phone.
A person with a bouquet of flowers
Catches the eye of someone lost in thought.
So many people who compliment one another,
Or an other,
Sit idly on a moving bus
Separated only by people
Who, too, are separated from their second piece.
You meet such people everyday
Who could have been,
Yet are not.

CO-PRECIPITATION
Something that is generally avoided.
An impurity that co-precipitates with the product
Can cause an overestimation of analyte.
Impurities can be caught within
The crystal lattice structure of the compound
Or trapped inside a growing crystal.
It may be hard to understand
Such thoughts still seem foreign
But I, too, have things that I remember dearly.
They are wrapped up with
Lists of groceries, and formulas
About distance and its relation to
Speed and its change over time.
It is all just things that have
Come to pass.
Such memories are hard to keep
When there is only one who articulates them,
But I am sure
Perhaps years from now
You’ll catch yourself thinking
For a split second
And then go about your day.

PEPTIZATION  
The breaking up of precipitate
Due the loss of electrolyte
Which strengthens the ionic atmosphere
Around the analyte.
In line at a bus stop
A glimpse is caught
Of the oncoming bus
And people shuffle
As the line moves up.
Never again
Can the same people
Line up the same way
For the same bus
We are too fragile
To construct ourselves in such a way
Where we can meet again.
Fate is too frail
Someone must leave
Leaves must fall
But someone always stays.

Ambiguity and indecision
Allows room for
You and I.
When I write you and
I
The emphasis is put on me.
I am put in isolation
To exaggerate that I am isolated.
When I write
You and I
The exaggeration is that we are separate from the text,
Thus one entity amidst the rest of the paper.
The reader,
When reading aloud,
Puts an emphasis on
You then I.
You are brought to the foreground immediately
And I follow right after.
You, thus I.

Here a relationship is formed
And is seen clearly between
You and I
And
You and
I.
Similarly you and       I
Achieves a similar sentiment
But suggests a different context.
I am looking afar at you
But the position of distance is still maintained.
It is, therefore,
Subtlety that gives meaning
To simple gestures.

The establishment of position between
You and I
Then must depend on subtleties as well.
Ambiguity gives room to grow
But a name
Can only stifle it.
When should things be taken literally
When part of poetry
Is to write in exaggerations.
I don’t know how to talk to you
I and you.
You and I.
Therefore I will take your word for it
And stop there.

He turns to look for her in bed
And does not find her there
He rushes to the barnhouse shed
To find a toppled chair

And hanging from the ceiling beam
He finds two longing eyes
Two eyes too young to yell and scream;
Two eyes that did not cry.

Not stunned nor torn, the boy walked forth
To cleanly cut the rope
And brought her gently down to earth
To clean her off with soap.

Not here to dwell, not anymore
The boy had said aloud
With her on back he closed the door
Without making a sound.

A wonderful set of coincidences occur one after the other,
Allowing a once in a lifetime chance to cross paths
But no matter how much they deserve to meet
These two must never do so.
These individuals litter bus stops and late night trains,
They aggregate during the rain
And disperse as the crosswalk signals to cross,
They find solace in solitude,
And comfort in crowds,
And would most likely tell their life story to a stranger,
But find it difficult to confide in a friend.
They catch glimpses of others through windows as they pass by
And, when found, are always focused on something else,
They trip on escalators when rushing for the next train,
They chase buses but give up half way through,
They lament a lost umbrella,
But rarely mourn the lost opportunity
Whisked away by a bus just leaving the terminal,
Or captured perfectly, like a portrait, in storefront windows.
They read books in transit and rarely look up,
They stare longingly in space, often focusing on another person’s face without knowing,
They eagerly await text messages
And check emails frequently.
All of these people are waiting,
And in fact,
Are waiting together,
Collectively, for someone else.
Although the circumstances that had brought them all together
Were nothing short of extraordinary,
It is just a normal day.
A quick glance around confirms it,
And away they go,
On night trains that someone else had just missed by a minute.
In this sense,
Cruelty seems unusually fair,
And thus why they must never meet.

I sometimes think of a girl who wished to die at sea
The sea, I see, which saw her drift away so lifelessly.
Not long ago we had been doomed to die a death in bed
But now the ocean waves careen above our heads instead
She stole my heart, I stole a car, and then just like that we’re gone
We escaped from the hospital, our days spent there were done.
She would not last without her meds and I was getting sick
So to the coast was where to go, and we had to get there quick.
Along the ride, she said to me, in the year two thousand five,
“Looking at all the scenery, it kind of makes you feel alive”
At the beach, we both looked on and made no qualms with death
For there are no prayers to be said if you are out of breath
She smiled at me and I at her, and then it was time to go
She swam out with a happy face, that is all I know

she would not look me in the eyes
as i pretend to be
the person whom she coveted;
the man she used to see

nor night or day, will I think less
of her as time goes on
yet he remains inside her head
from dusk to break of dawn

perhaps, i think, in solitude
she will move on from him,
but it is i that she neglects
and leaves upon a whim

one day he showed up at our door
much to her surprise
and outlined our last couple days
before our grand demise

who would have thought that she
would try to run away
and have the courage to **** me
on the exact same day?

alas, ‘tis not a fairy tale,
she would not get her way,
for the same day that I had died,
she, too, would pass away

our daughter whom shall wake alone
when the night is done
in shock will find the corpses of
her beloved ones

what will she think of this mess
when she looks down to see
the blood and her lifeless parents
engulfed in tragedy

you see, the man who had shown up
dropped by to say hello,
my wife, who still had loved this man,
did not want him to go.

so that same night, she called to me
and said she would leave soon,
to pursue the man who had left,
under the the naked moon.

i tried to talk her out of it,
But she would not listen,
and as we started to argue,
her tears would then glisten

in rage, she grabbed a nearby knife
and lunged at my bare neck
but in the process, fallen down
and missed me by a thread.

at this time, she had broke down
and would not stop crying
then turned the knife onto herself
and died where i was lying.

I took the knife, and turned it to
myself as i had sobbed
Would I let my wife go alone
To Hell? is what i thought

But is it not somewhat funny
Attempted homocide
Turned tragically into what was
A double suicide.

Because I am such a short girl
Perhaps you cannot see
That the love I have for you is true;
You are my destiny.

You said you only like tall girls
And I look like a twig
But where my height may lack, my heart
At least stands twice as big.

Those other girls are heartbreakers,
They’d never think of you,
They paint themselves as art sculptures
And force you to think too.

They’d never think of sacrifice
They’d never think of needs
All I would do is fall for you;
This beating heart still bleeds!

So with this rope, I’ll stand up proud,
And have it break my fall,
I’ll feel like I am on a cloud,
And happy to be tall.

If it had been a heart attack
There would have been a chance,
But in its stead the news I heard
Had wiped hope at first glance.

If you were family, by that
I mean if I was fair,
I would have treated you with love
And been there in despair

I would have been a son to you,
I would have heard you out,
I would have cooked and drank with you,
I should have with no doubt.

Last week I should have stopped to say
Goodbye for one last time,
Instead I said hello and left,
Regret is now all mine.

For all the times I’ve told others
That family comes first,
It’s criminal how I neglect
The one who was most hurt.

I always said that I can wait
To say what should be said
But now, tonight, a hypocrite
I am to be instead.

I am the son you never had.
I’m sad, I must confess,
I was not what you had deserved,
But you loved me no less.

Farewell, so long, my dear Uncle
The words I should have said
Are hastily scribbled in
A poem to the dead.

On my ship, I set sail,
To where Musashi had failed,
In search of a spot to rest my head
Upon a foreign seabed.
As I leave the city port
I cast my eyes homeward in farewell
And catch a glimpse upon a cliff
Of a canvas on an easel.
Perched upon a little chair,
I spot a girl with paint at hand,
Who takes a pause to watch the sea
Part and mend at my hull’s command.

I crease my sailor cap and raise it high,
And wave to her as I pass by.
She returns to me a gentle stare
And dips her brush in paint with care.
My wandering eye is now affixed
Upon the glow of this fading girl
Whose eyes meet mine for brief moments
To watch my fleeting goodbye unfurl.
Who does she see, from on that cliff?
What boy will she now paint?
Will she remember how I look?
Or keep my features vague and faint?

Her cliff now sinks beneath the sea
To rise again, from under me,
As this ship goes from trough to crest,
Riding waves for seas southwest.
The waves now pull me off, adrift,
To oceans foreign, to currents stiff,
Trapped within the torrent’s pull
Where a storm awaits in full.
I wonder when she turns to the sea
Does the breeze redden the skin of her cheeks?
Does she watch the rolling clouds
Blend with the white of the crashing tide
And find herself somewhat resigned
To a deepening sadness trapped inside?
How will she remember me?
What will that painting look like when it is done?
How long will she think of the boy floating away
On a sailing ship set toward the sun?

It will be fine if I am here
It’s just a little jump
A sudden drop with naught to fear
That ends with a soft thump.

The ***** soles of our tired feet
Are pricked by broken glass
Our skin is burned by summer heat
And obstacles we pass

Our racing hearts will catch no rest
With night just on our heels
To make it we’ll have to do our best
Despite how hard it feels

How odd it is to run so far
So we could be right here
We run on foot, they chase by car,
But now, nothing to fear.

With one more step, we’ll be happy
The fall won’t hurt us much.
Upon a cliff, and by the sea
Wrapped in a loving clutch.

Someone quick, please come with me
The admiral’s been shot
The bandage did not stop the blood
That’s pouring out his gut.
I’ve tried two times, to sedate him
With whisky and some ***
Yet no liquor nor a sailor’s tune
Showed any pain it numbed.
The rocking of the trashing waves
Has sent him into fits
Of pain, of tears, of screaming howls
Despite the teeth he grits

Where’s the surgeon, where’s the first mate?
We haven’t time to waste
I fear for what is to come
If too long we wait.
Is there no sailor on this ship
With a free hand to help?
Why is it just I who comes to aide
To the Admiral’s pained yelp?

And why with hate you hold your eyes
When I beseech for you?
Why point that gun at me, my friend?
A member of your crew?
Don’t tell me, friend, you fired the gun,
That your scrutiny,
That the deed which you had done
Was an act of mutiny
I do no-

Tonight,
I must go.
I was almost sure I belonged,
But how many more years
Should I tell myself that?
Memories of those
Long happy nights,
Make me think
What use is it to reminisce
What I, alone, can remember?

Tomorrow,
I will go out
As if nothing is amiss.
I have done so before,
But half-heartedly.
I listened closely
To see if my absence was noticed,
I had found no murmurs
No stirrings,
Not even an insult
Or a condescending remark:
It was as if I had not left at all,
And with a bruised ego,
I found out that I never had a place here.
So I rushed back
I worked hard
I did my best
And yet
I am ready to leave again
And the taste of the midnight air
Is the still the same;
I will not be missed,
Nor shall my effort be remembered.

I will be back, someday
Maybe 10,
20 years from now.
Will you wait for me?
If I silently let my years pass
And let time
Harden my fingertips
And wrinkle my face
Will you all of a sudden
Remember the passion
With which I was embroiled?
When I return
Will you welcome me again?

It’s not as if I want to go.
I must.
Like most of everyone before me,
I had found what I loved
However,
We are much too fickle to love.
Where I lack in conviction
I am sure to make up with time lost
Wondering how it could have been.

If you had ever been left behind,
Or are trying your best to move forward,
I am sure you understand
How much I want to chase you.
If only I could be happy
In your pursuit.

I will always look for you,
You are the poems I’ve committed to heart,
You are the plays that I had practiced in my bedroom,
The speeches I memorized and picked apart,
You are the sonnets I’ve tried to write,
You are the long letters I’ve never finished,
You were my sole frustration for most of my life,
I was obsessed with you,
Yet I have nothing to show for it.

I will always look for you,
However, you cannot look for me.
I will not be anywhere
But here,
Far back
Looking onwards, from the past,
At the back of your neck as it smudges in the distance
With falling leaves
Rain
Petals that lost their way
In an August gust
And the horizon
That blurs
As the sun sets.

Goodbye, goodbye,
I love you, I love you,
Perhaps I shall see you sometime again
But not now
And not ever with me.

For a short while, I thought that she
Would stay here by my side
As she would wait for you to come,
Passing hours with a sigh

The summer we had thrown away
Was spent beside the fire
She’d hum a tune and play guitar,
Of singing, she’d never tire

I did not know her very well,
But she would like to talk
The only thing that captured her
Was when with you she walked
And sang and played out loud each night
She loved these simple things
She longed for you, she cared for you
She thought you’d see her through.

Just to be frank, I could not stand
The song Norwegian Wood
But nowadays, I cannot help
But hum it like she could

I often think of what she’d be
If you were with her then
And think of silly questions like
Then where, with who and when?

But to tell you the truth
I really ******* dislike thinking of you,
And by extension,
I really ******* dislike talking to you,
So let’s just stop.

A woman and I sit alone
On a train destined for a seaside cliff.
She is dressed sharply:
a tailored business suit with a matching pencil skirt ending just below her knees,
her hair neatly tied back in a short ponytail
and a hard leather suitcase dangling from her left hand.
To her right, I sit in the seat next to her,
I have dressed accordingly as her counterpart:
a cleanly pressed tuxedo, a jet black tie lingering just above the belt line,
a pair of black leather dress shoes polished to a high shine,
with two envelopes, imprinted with our names, dangling from my right hand.
We look prim, we look stoic,
We look accepting of what is to come
as co-partners in misery.

Occasionally,
as she gazes at something distant,
she starts to tear up
and a portion of her makeup begins to smear at the corner of her eyes,
falling as small droplets of streaking black.
I try not to look
but I slowly affix my left hand on her right thigh
where her right hand comes to meet mine.
Her shoulders shudder
My heart starts to flutter,
We both feel dizzy;
Co-partners in misery.

Doesn’t it seem odd?
We could work so much in just a few years
and achieve completely nothing.
Debt is an odd thing,
to what extent was she willing,
to which extent was I willing,
not that it matters,
all we needed was a good heart in the wrong place
and a co-signed loan,
one for her,
one for me;
all for him.
Debt is an odd thing,
The living may never escape it,
But it shall never catch the dead.

With each passing train stop,
we both get a little bit antsier.
She looks more unsure of our decision,
I look more unsure of our decision,
but the train continues.
Her hands start to sweat,
my feet start to tap nervously,
she begins to bite her lower lip anxiously
I begin to heave a little harder
as the ocean comes into view.
We both tempt each other with worried eyes,
But our clasped hands act to remind
that we are just so very tired.
she may want to go back,
i may want to go back,
but the train continues.

Her eyes are wonderful,
as she stares at me,
they ask a simple question:
Is death forever?
I stare back,
Let’s find out together.

The train stops.

Our hearts drop.

Until next time, perhaps.

Someone such as she
With someone such as me
There’s no way I’ll believe
That such a thing can be
My face; synecdoche
She looks, dismissively,
She wants what she can see,
And not what I could be.

A shadow cast across the room
Adopts a lonely size
Familiar, singular;
Belonging to a bride’s.

The turning of a curtain’s cord,
As the breeze blows by,
Rattles in an empty room
Which was occupied.

What good are words that can’t be heard
Or read by whom they’re for?
An open fist that grasps for wind
And memories from before.

She’s waiting in a wedding dress
Perhaps her groom is late?
But that is fine, she has the time;
Forever thirty-eight.

The curtains in a hospice room
Are nicely pressed and clean,
There’s not a hint or trace of doom,
Nor speck of hope to gleam.

A wedding dress, she will not wear,
Instead, a patient gown,
While waiting in intensive care
For her doctor’s next round.

You will not find her sitting there,
At least not as of late,
She must have left to go somewhere;
Forever thirty-eight.