Dear Time,

Please save every moment he has for me.
For I, have been and will be, having him in my moments.

I collect each tick of time we share like a child does his marbles.
Drop them into the drawer of my memories, and occasionally,
they will glisten under the sun. I think of him, so much,
I wonder if you see his smile behind mine, his eyes
reflected on mine, his fingerprints
under the sheer layer of my skin.

He is everywhere I go, at every place I remember.
The way we sat
with my head on his shoulder, his voice
whispering to my ears, "We should go
back to our place." And before the city disappeared into
the night, we'd already gone.

The days of snow, when he asked,
"Want to see this from a different angle?", and we went
up and up against the winds
blowing against us, and the snow
leaving tiny sparkles on my coat, my face.
The only other human presence
was his. My body was trembling as much as
my heart, then we got to the mountaintop,
and the world we knew was gone.

For beauty of nature and the strong bond
between two souls, at that very moment,
devoured us whole,
and we had no choice
but to fall silent and watch
the sun rise, with his hand
on mine.

Cannot fall in love with the poet.
But I am already in love with the poet.

For only the poet knows how to please me
with the rhythm
of words
the sensation
of rhymes
the aesthetics
of images
the purpose
of diction

on the same page
our words are intertwined
  our rhymes are smooth
   our images are blurry
    our diction is precise  

and we end it all with an exclamation
of one last cry.

His eyes are gentle like his poetry
sometimes they are difficult to look.
I am not always the woman he thinks I could be,
wrapped in the sheer sheet of romance,
relishing every love letter - an endless rainfall,
grasping for breath at everything splendid,
and at the end of our poem, always
yearning for more.

I am already in love with the poet, but I
have to go. And for one last time,
in our world of perfection,
together we write.

same words, same tone
every time I see you I see your message I pick up the phone
I wish you would do it right
even just for one time.

but why, you always have to say something show something prove something do something
annoy me disappoint me make me add harshness to my words turn me into someone I do not want to become

why can't you, just once, before it's too late
say something do something be something
before it's too late, help me so I won't forget
why I once thought you were my world

autumn
the wind came by, and I forgot to ask
if it’d seen you.
rain
on the other side of the crowd you ran, your face
became so strange.
late night affairs
shitfaces everywhere, she almost poured her wine on the grass
I saw you getting ***** at her laughters.
people’s assumptions
they look at any couple, and immediately
“they must’ve ****** each other”
the truth of the matter is
you never know
what actually happens
in this life’s show
everything hides beside a mirror
yet all you can see
is your own horror.
But perhaps
I’m about to get over you
before the snow
right before the snow

In a city far far away,
another life is waiting for me.

I hear and speak another language,
see other known faces.

As if I had two hearts inside my chest
As if every return were the first time.

At every place I’ve come and left
it seems nothing has changed
it seems the city has forgotten appearances and absences
it seems I have lived a temporary death

What would I do,
if one day,
there were no other city at another place
for me to arrive at?

When we saw each other, our eyes
were locked, not into each other
but into the memories we shared.


When we were together in a crowd,
nobody knew about us. Just you and me.
Separately.


I was content with our
secret closeness. Yet to a woman,
Love cannot be unsaid.


My greed of belonging
pushed us apart. In a breath, we tore away
our past.


I should be happy with our
silent goodbye. Each night is just
another night. Without expecting you.


Each morning is
beautiful weather. birds singing. everyone smiling.
everything I did not have.


And how painful, the loneliness
of the footsteps with no more rush
to run towards somebody.


If there’s nothing new about thinking of you
what is it
that makes me think of you, not so much,
but for so long?