You know,
I've seen sunrises at night.
Stirring sugar in my tea,
you tell me
you've never seen sunlight.
"How haven't you seen sunlight?"
"I am asleep in the day."
You're weird like that.
I like your weird like that.
You kiss me.
Tell me —
"You're looking at me that way again."
"what way?"
"As if you're falling in love — Don't."
I look away.
You look away.
"Look." I point outside
to a messy chaos
of a million stringlights in the sky.
"I made you sunlight."

I like it here in your point of view.
My eyes are strained and
it smells like cigarette and rose in here.
Early morning,
waving for a cab
my skin is lit in streetlights.
Never sure what you find beautiful;
never know what you want.
Writer buying coffee at dawn;
her hair is a chaos in the air.
It's so cold;
her nose is the coldest —
That's all I am at the moment.
Not sad.
Not particularly happy.
"Wonder what it's like to date you."
"What did you imagine?"
Tucking my hair behind my ear,
I feel anxiety swirling in my stomach.
Smiles.
White noise.
You're blinking, looking away
and at me.
Why do everything I write
sound like a lovesong?
Do you like it here in my point of view?

Fold, fold, fold —
and almost everything is packed.
A charger, lotion, strips of medicine and oh, she almost forgot her toothbrush as always.
She's leaving again
and in this morning cabride,
she's thinking of the last time she saw you.
You let her hold you
and instead of closing her eyes,
she cried;
kissed the back of your ear.
The sky was a mix of blue and grey just like her
and it rained.
Rain can be so sad sometimes.
She drew both your feet together from the day at the dock,
in that notebook she carries everywhere.
You have finally got in bed after a long night
and she has left to go forever.
She likes you
and will maybe never see you again.
You
close your eyes.

The sign across the road says: Stop
and we go
together into the pandemonium.
Fix me again
and I'll fix you.
pretend to smoke a cigarette,
don't leave the party early —
Travel.
Stop. It still says: Stop.
Go — Let's go!
Break his heart;
I'll break it too.
Your shirt smells of whiskey
and young —
Not for too long.
Paint me in madness
while there's still time.
Leave them.
Leave them.
It still says: Stop
Please,
Let's go.

Waving at you
I close the door
and it's as if
I've lived life twice.
'feel like I've shared this moment with you before.
Maybe I should tell you —
We kissed in the elevator once
and sat in the balcony with old wine in our rented apartment;
you asked me to marry you.
I'm never sure what I said.
Time has been swirly lately —
losing its shape.
I'm giving up
as I make smiles on the car window at dawn.
You have laughed 2468 times,
and fallen in love twice
since I melted
into a pastel drawing.
I think we lived for a longtime,
and made photographs of our
limbs, lunches, birthdays,
paints and wrinkles.
You didn't like sushi and I liked it very much and
we argued a few times.
I apologise,
I've lived life twice.
And you are moving on in this one.
No elevator, balcony, wine.
No photographs, birthdays, wrinkles.
Waving at you
I close the door.

The sky is so bland in the cities.
To be fair,
people in cities don't look at the stars;
they pace around, drink fancy teas and coffees and settle.
To soft melodies last night,
as I swayed on the terrace watching meteors fall,
I felt a little stupid.
How dare I ―
ordinary mess, chubby thighs, arms and toes, drinking cheap tea and wine, indecisive, unauthentic woman,
dance in the middle of the night, on a terrace as if,
the protagonist in a romantic, indie film?
Protagonists don't look like this or think like this.
Protagonists live in cities,
wander, drink fancy teas and coffees, look for love
and find it
behind strands of hair pushed behind a ear, dainty ankles dangling from chairs at cafés, artiste, running at the beach
or whatever they may have romanticized.
The lights and their eyes
are sparkly and dreamy,
here in the cities.
Yet,
the sky is bland
and they don't look at the stars.

"I disagree.
Writers who write for free are making it harder for us.
These companies have the money they say they don't have." She says —
Infuriated.
Slowly pulling myself away from fabricated corporeality,
I realize my tongue tastes of bitter beer.
Walking upstairs the other day
I caught my toe in my long checkered pajamas and tripped.
Graceless young lady who writes for free.
I chuckle.
"I asked them for what I deserve and they refused
so I left."
I hear her say and I'm thinking
about how sad I will be when Ruskin Bond dies.
A signed book, an untouched hello is a recipe for disappointment,
so I would never meet the man.
He once wrote,
about the rain drumming on
his corrugated tin roof.
How it helped him lie awake
and at the same time,
didn't keep him from sleeping.
I fall in love at the thought.
"And they wouldn't hire writers
because people waste their time and write for these companies
for free!'
Her voice brings me back to this restaurant
and the cold
condensation on the table.
Her boyfriend calls, and I want to go home.
How long have I been here?