So lost is this ship in your ocean
That even the amicable stars
Collude with clouds
—In the frame of the sky
To cloak the referral to my compass,
To keep me from my contrived destination.

Only after aeons thence do I value Earth's opinion,
And know,
That—
'twas not collusion
'twas aspiration,
That I was being guided to my shipwreck
To go deeper in you
Be consumed by you,
O! My predestination!

My stories are sad, I am not.
They are like the most beautiful plots
that tragically ended,
in gunshots.

©rajgomes

the peaks of my purple life:
i am reading all of my friends
I SCREEN
i need to fall head forwards and
we are never alone anymore

ADDRESS ME
i am half covered like a geiser
fuming but we'll be able to make out

some form or shape
i am very half covered
a careful mix of red and blue

my thighs available
i return my forgivings at night
nothing counts at night the laws
of life tongue my feet and i
do not trust my second language
for a second

i cannot be undrawn to you
very well understand that i am not
enough malleable to qualify as
co-operative

Being unable to write in Biarritz is like:

Granulated salt lining the insides of your nostrils
And the sneeze that never quite comes or
Writing out a shopping list and forgetting half the things on it in the
French market hall that is loud
But also somehow overwhelmingly quiet and
You get frazzled by the French words you don’t know and
The way that they pour over you or
Topple like
Dreamy foam on golden beaches and
Salt water inside of your brain like
Liquid French, d’accord?

Every word written over the last three weeks—
Sans stylo—
End-of-summer ghosts
Wrapped in cashmere sweaters and
The    way     that     they     f l o a t —
Not the words (sans stylo)
Tumbling, rolling, becoming complete-
-ly different in my mind.

But the shadow of women
Whose bones one can so easily count and
Make me
Shake inside, wondering how closely that
Could have been me?

But this writelessness, it does not float.
Not even knowing the words to write about
The words I am not writing or
Does it dig?
Into the depths of the soul, demanding to know
If the thoughts run through your mind
Constantly like
Endless plates of tapas and the gluttony of
Speaking perfect French after three bottles of
Red wine;
Then why must you dig,
To write it down?

Not writing in Biarritz is like
Bickering with the one you love over
- the shopping list
- the sand inside of your nose and
- your subsequent feelings of inadequacy about being unable to surf a wave.

Because you forgot for five minutes,
Five months,
Five years,
Of the most important thing that there is.
And the way that he looked at you and
Held your tiny face in his hands in
The airport when you first met,
Saying goodbye,
Unknowing it would soon be the warmest hello in the entire world.

Forgetting how to write in Biarritz is like being overwhelmed
By the mundane and so
You forget that
This is the most important thing that
Is here.

I never knew
that the sound of those raindrops
on my window
the scent of wet soil
after rain
the melodies of these songs
on my spotify playlist
could remind me of you

remind me of the sound of
your lovely laughter
remind me of the scent of
your sweet perfume
remind me of the sound of
your sleepy voice

— I never knew
that missing you
could be this tough.

I imagine an amazing meadow,
where we'd stay for hours
you'd wear your silly yellow
and we'd sit among'st the flowers

'Tis only a dream
or so to seem
you, my only seam
lost within the stream

I see he's ready
I'd wish him not
to take the shot
I see he's, steady

In this dream, I see you there
Your screams, In this nightmare