let's make a house
of lamps and sheets
and our awkwardness
to spend an afternoon in.
the world —
a swirly mess
of dust and blue
can go on without us.
in orange-yellow light
i can see a life in your eyes
flickering like bonfire,
like an evening sun,
like hope.
heavy footsteps,
broken glass —
the flat around us
is of the monsters
that we have been running from.
but
here under sheets
we are home.
so we lie down
pretend we aren't afraid.
you play The Beatles —
Michelle, on a CD player
and i tell you about
a happy story from life.
something about sour candy
and a rainy day.
it's surprising how
comforting the ordinary is.
coming out
of small-talk
we talk about how
we hate it.
that old photo of you
standing next to your sister,
from when you were 5
is hilarious.
i can't believe
how uneven your
dad cut your hair.
older now,
we are still uneven
in other ways. other
good and bad ways.
"you know anxiety too?
oh, i know her. she's
lovely most of the time."
we talk about the smell
of fresh bread. soft,
cream coloured.
you need a new toothbrush.
i need new glasses.
there is still room to
discuss existentialism
in a universe of
combusting galaxies.
turning to me —
a part of your face
lit in the golden
lamplight,
you ask me
to be honest.
absolutely honest.
there is a tear
in the sheets,
and outside
it's getting louder.
you're waiting for
an answer.
i hesitate
as the monsters
find us —
"let yourself be
till you need to be."
a light goes out.
you're still smiling.

who wants the first question?
orange cheeks
strawberry saturday —
two robot contestants
with coloured eyes,
violin smiles,
mugs of tea;
in quiet night air
both
maybe
looking for love.

like this morning
of sweet biscuits dipped in tea,
i will make many mornings.
of coffee, of music,
of people.
long hair,
then short hair,
then long again —
the years will make me look different.
seeing me so often,
my sister will still remember
my face the same as seven years ago.
but my heart will change.
hopefully becoming kinder and softer.
i will tire of favorite songs
and find them again
in a magical moment
decades later.
pink hands becoming paler —
i will experience loss.
inevitably.
maybe i will be prepared then
to never be able to hold someone
i love.
buying more flowers for home,
embarrassing myself more often
with random declarations of feelings,
writing more letters —
i will make more memories
for myself
and the ones who will miss me.
i will experience rain for a last time.
another cup of ginger tea.
one more thing to laugh about.
and hopefully,
sitting in a front porch somewhere,
life will look just silly.
in the best possible way.
like this morning
of sweet biscuits dipped in tea,
i will make many mornings.
but for now
i'm here —
wishing the last of me well.
looking forward to tomorrows.

early-morning
apartment that smells
of fresh laundry.
not night yet,
not day anymore —
an outdoor coffeeshop
with a string-light roof.
making buttered
grilled toast
and eggs with cheese,
garlic and parsley
on a rainy mid-day.
wet, salty hair
from the seashore,
fresh clothes,
reggae music —
in candle light,
for dinner with friends.
passing by
a bakery smelling of
freshly baked
bread and cookies,
and deciding to
get some.
sitting under lamplight
in a living room,
listening to a
magnificent song
just discovered.
wandering in a
secondhand furniture
shop — finding
the perfect white, wooden
table with three legs
pinned on a vision board.
a long, warm shower
on a very cold day.
leftovers from
the most delicious dinner,
for today.
lighting a vanilla
scented candle
in a clean, organized
peaceful home.
homemade cake with tea.
walking along
an uphill market —
dumpling shops,
man with the local spices,
earrings, singing bowls.
petrichor.

things to imagine
when lying in bed, anxious.

in a kitchen
smelling of dark roast
i ask
where the toothpaste
is, and you say
you forgot to
bring some yesterday
because —
"i was so in love with you"
"i mean,
not in ...love...
but you know,
you were beautiful"
you awkwardly
laugh,
and i awkwardly
backstep
into the shower.
this has been
a wonderful time
but i know
i'm not going
to see you again,
and you're
okay with that.
still
this little moment
is good.
we sit on the couch
i tell you
the too-sweet-for-my-taste
coffee is
actually great.
and you tell me
that you want
grandchildren,
and children
and a nice
homely life.
something about
the way you
stretch your arm out
to pull me in,
while we watch
television
is endearing.
and you're
lovely.
but i don't want
the life you want
and in a way,
i don't accept
what you bring.
you don't deserve
what i bring.
however,
still
this day —
here,
is just wonderful.
good thing
i don't mind
being told
that i'm loved
accidentally
or
not.

you're going to
accidentally switch
our socks —
wear my navy blues
instead of your black ones.
across blue, white
and warm wooden tables
at restaurants,
we will make
inside jokes
for a lifetime.
in one of our summers
you will get yourself
many linen shirts
and i am
going to be
pleasantly
surprised.
didn't think
you could look
even more
breathtaking.
there will be succulents,
coffee cups on the floor,
and some jobs
that we will complain about.
writer's blocks,
a few mid-life crises
and arguments about
what we need from life.
there will be a lot of life.
moments of
"i can't believe how happy
i am"
times,
staying home
eating fancy ramen
and listening to
Take On Me
over again,
and loving
every bit.
and across tables,
midst writer's block,
inside jokes
and coffee,
i'm going to
fall in love
with you
a little bit.
someday,
years later
you're going to
accidentally switch
our socks
again —
navy blues to black.
and we'd
never know.

back and forth
in a wooden chair
as i drink my morning
tea, with the sweet-salty
biscuits i like —
the air feels especially cold.
this homemade blanket
of multicoloured strings
woven together,
by my sister's little daughter
is keeping my feet warm.
in the middle of
the trees outside,
sleepy houseplants inside,
teapot, socks, soft jazz,
fig jam in the refrigerator —
i'm warm today.
from here,
the life that i've lived
looks very big
and very small
at the same time.
from here,
the decisions look easier;
the mistakes a bit funnier.
and there is clarity.
adjusting my glasses,
as i curl into the blanket
pulling the top of it
over my shoulders,
comfortable,
i imagine my time
in the house i grew up in.
the floors, balcony,
sound of the ceiling fan —
a grey cloud in my hair.
from here now
i see the way out.
from this day,
i can see
how important
a day was.
maybe i should
have calculated less,
loved more
let go more.
back and forth
in this wooden chair,
i've had
the sweetest
life.
i've loved
the sweetest
people.
this is what
everything
was leading up to —
warm on a cold morning
and cinnamon tea.
if only i knew,
i wouldn't
have worried as much.
oh well.