more thankful than yesterday,
for the sun that shines bright
through the curtains
in my room,
for my sister's friend
who taught me to ride the bicycle when i was little,
for each heartfelt hug that taught me
affection.
more thankful than yesterday,
for the big gulps of cold water
and hot food,
for the firm mattress
that allows me rest
when i need it the most.
more thankful than yesterday
for the swirling,
ever-present illness
that teaches me compassion,
for a heart that feels,
breaks, blooms
radiates and gives
love.
thankful
for the yellow wildflowers
that grow from nothing
even to make concrete
beautiful;
for eyes
that make the most vivid memories.
thankful
for the sublime breeze
through the window,
when the power is out
on a summer's day,
for the last of the yogurt
or the remaining milk
for the last cup of tea.
more thankful than yesterday
for the songs
that were thought of,
for the universe
that wants me,
and keeps me safe
on days
when i am not
the kindest.
more thankful than yesterday
for the space to contemplate
in privacy of my mind,
for intentional words,
for this day
and for all the ages to come
in my inexplicably
magical lifetime
here.

hidden ways through bushes
in a july evening —
i'm walking to the park.
haven't learnt to write
poems yet,
or to think of thoughts.
but i draw girls
wearing fancy clothes
in my sister's old notebooks.
i have learnt hidden ways
to exist everyday —
go to my room when dad
is watching the television
in the living room,
don't laugh at dinner,
pretend to fall asleep,
pretend to not hear.
i haven't learnt yet
what it means
to feel relieved
to leave the house and
go to the park.
a mix of straight and wavy,
my hair,
is a roasted-coffee brown
in the sunshine.
the swings are taken
and i've made a couple friends
over shared boredom.
we decide to make
bouquets for home.
big, round leaves
rolled into cones,
and off we go
looking for the prettiest flowers.
orange, white and pink hibiscuses
and a big adventure,
stealing roses from someone's garden.
i've fallen down from running,
and the other girl
tripped over my leg.
we are laughing — breathless;
our cheeks pink and dusty.
the sun has swirled into a nothing,
and the girls say
they have to go.
a bouquet of flowers in hand,
i walk back home
from hidden ways
through bushes.
leaving the shoes outside,
i rush to the kitchen
to fill a glass with water —
the flowers will live another day
in a makeshift vase.
in the living room
dad switches on the television.

a rainwater memory
of fresh trees
smelling green,
and dreaming to songs
under a pastel sun.
impatient
and always in mood
for a hot cup
of anything;
i never remember
birthdays
or valentines.
passionate and mad,
then utterly over it —
i never know to define
love.
making paper boats
in puddles,
cross-legged
on a floor
and on restaurant tables,
i have made
a rosy world.
for worse
or for better,
never been heartbroken enough
or for too long —
life has been sweet to me.
wishing
on eyelashes,
and starry skies
i have made
a rosy world
of rainwater
and songs.
here,
is a cornucopia
of pink, inexplicable
goodness.
all things grey
come here
to become
new days,
new chances
and miracles.
never remember
birthdays,
or valentines
but i'm thinking of you
and wishing
you well.

In the sparkle of
string lights and a
projector lamp I
bought off Amazon,
I am learning to take
things very slow. I
realize I have come
so far. From a three-
bedroom apartment,
to brushing my teeth
in a Starbucks sink, to
learning to meditate
again. Planning to go
through the books and
all the little things that
I keep in drawers, and
make a new-ish life.
This whole year, has
been the best year of
my life. It has been
very difficult, but so,
so magical. I dreamt
of exactly this growing up.
So I have been learning,
and I am settling into
the space that I now
have, to grow and
become magnificent.

Charles Aznavour sings La Bohemia, as the candlelight,
a red-yellow glow
flickers — dancing on the wall.
The years have gone by like a day,
and there is still room for more.
I have washed a thousand dishes; I took the coldest shower
and there is still time.
Even when the worst tragedy,
life can be just perfect.
The poet in Paris
was once scared of everything;
today she walked to the bar
with a cigarette and a friend,
and even though she hasn't made the best decisions
and life hasn't
and will never be ideal,
it has been and will always be perfect.
The guys went for a swim with the sharks in Dungeons — South Africa
looks like a dream in the summer,
and winter
and when it rains.
Even when there has never been a happy day,
you've never had a good cup of anything
and never been in love,
life can still be perfect.
You have misunderstood love,
and you're losing the plot.
if you have ever loved the pink sleep of five in the morning,
you have been in love.
and if you have wanted to hear a song again,
walked barefoot on grass,
laughed at anything at all,
you have been in love.
life can be perfect if you want it to, and if you make it to be.
bad weather?
life is perfect.
they did not love you?
life is perfect.
For the poet never changed her plans to go to the bar
when she dropped the teapot
out of nervousness this morning
and the boys
went for the swim
when they knew the waves were enormous.
Go to the bar
and swim with the sharks.
Make life
perfect for you.

a houseplant is starting to grow a new leaf,
so i know an old leaf is about to die.
little triangle corners from packets torn open,
all over my kitchen counter.
bookmarks in books
i haven't read in ages.
tiny scars on my hands
from playing the ukulele.
alarms i had set for things,
that don't make sense anymore.
the yellowing old paper
of my birth certificate.
amazon wish-list
of things i don't really need.
the artist and the writer
who got married,
not
for the idea of romance
but
for all the right reasons.
the birthdays
i am forever forgetting.
a friend's coffee mug
from Archies,
that reminds me of a
childhood memory
i thought i had lost.
the smell of inspiration
is of bonfire
and bakeries.
watching Ps I Love You
only to cry.
walking;
stopping at the teashop
on the way home.
struggling to be honest.
writing a list
of little thoughts,
memories and details
from a life.

it's cold on this terrace;
they're passing around a joint,
and i'm stunned at how
all the city lights
could pass for stars.
i don't remember the last time i saw you, but
i remember we don't see each other anymore.
maybe sometimes
reasons come later,
and feelings come first.
my friend made me chai
with sweet, powdered milk yesterday
and it tasted like a memory we share.
it was sweet.
i feel very happy here among people
and starry buildings;
i don't remember the last time i was on a terrace
so high,
or much of anything at all,
but regardless
i feel very happy here
and you're free to join me.