"Read between the lines," they say.

And I watched you stand there; a living, breathing
existence of lines.

You walked right up to me. Lines are moving dots.
Your being is a point in motion.

I looked at your face to see the bold lines
under your eyes and above your brows—the ones
that made me think of your strength and masculinity.
They are all an aspiring bravado exuded on your face
with your years of experience and hard work.

I love the curved lines of your eyes and lips too
as you smiled at me as I called your name.

Sometimes, I owe my success of finding you in crowds
to your tall height and I freeze whenever I do:
Vertical lines can stop eye movement.

Your dancing also catches my attention.
Did you know every part of your body consists of
dynamic and action-oriented lines?

You.
An important line in my life.
Highly directional, and I now know
where to go to
when I draw or write
the edges of my love.

|   LINES   |   ENDING II   |

Lines act as borders
between ideas and concepts.

They also tell me
to "never cross the line."

It goes the same for my mind
which draws your existence
in front of me, in Picasso style:
the single, drunk and confused
line.

Or those psychic lines that your eyes
connect to mine. I feel them there,
when you're not really looking at me
in person.

Lines allow you to quickly visualize
an object, or someone, with a minimum
of time, space and material.
But all I wanted was to feel
your hand in mine forever.

And all the lines I've ever written
about you and for you
will queue up to lines
of waiting, unrequited feelings.

not many people favor
the flavor
of the green tea latte
sweet from the start
with a slight bitter aftertaste
as the matcha on your tongue fades

i remember the time
we went to your favorite cafe
and you commented on how your
green tea latte
was a little sweeter than the usual
and now i comment how
it is a little more bitter
compared to when i had it with you

the green tea latte
is my memory of you
sweet—for every time
we sat in that same spot
sipping the warm green drink
and bitter— for the moment
i drank my
green tea latte
alone

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

the ocean watches and it knows.
it knows of the mermaid who sings
of loneliness and strong tides,
she dreams of a sailor in constant travel.
her heart runs deeper than treacherous trenches,
her saltwater love for him overflowing.
she hears his song from deep beneath
and sings her heart out like he would listen.

the ocean watches and it knows.
it knows of the sailor who
has danced from coast to coast,
he braves the sea storms,
the continuous thunder,
because somewhere in the middle of the sea
he hears a lovely mermaid song
as if she were calling out to him.
so on sunny days, leaning by the starboard,
he hums a gentle tune in response.

the ocean watches and it knows.
it knows of the sailor who waits for his ocean darling,
it knows of the mermaid who longs for her land lover,
and beyond everything it knows that
the currents shall bring them together someday.

two like beings made from the same stardust
two souls meant to be one
but separated by the laws of space and life

now they spin on neighboring orbits
of different speeds—
on some days they come close enough to meet but they never do.