a house
in the
morning
sun.
lavender,
blue
and
grey rugs,
a yoga mat,
a small
wooden
table.
coffee-cup
with tea
on the table.
the front door
is open to
the porch;
the air smells
of tea steam,
and the mogra
down the street.
the kitchen
countertop
is dry;
a saucepan
atop
the stove.
walls — cold
from last night's
downpour.
houseplants —
extraordinarily
sleepy.
a warm, grey
and white
duvet,
brought
from the
bedroom
and put next
to the table
with the tea.

the
soft hum
of the
passing
cycles,
and the
occasional
yellow bus.

the
soft sway
of the
living-room
curtains.

here, on
the ocean
the days merge
with the nights,
and the
afternoons
are like
purple evenings.
there is coffee,
and for the
first time in
a long time,
no one asks
for the parts
of you.
no one
needs you
to give.
so, you sit
outside
a bit longer —
sunlight on
your skin;
the salty air
in your ears;
in your desk,
your chair,
your wavy grey hair
and everything
that makes you.
salty air
in the memories
that you never
forget.
the new babies,
the barking dog,
the empty cups,
the paper,
the printer,
the light switches,
the stove,
the restaurant,
the theater,
the good people,
the bad days
— salty air.

life is long
enough for
you and i
to forget that
we will not
have this
for ever.
life is short
enough
to not think
about it
too much.
so you
sleep more,
and try
to unlearn
the coldness
a dusty world
taught you.
at sea,
you love.
you love
the lavender
in the skies,
warmth of
a coat
and yourself.
you love
the braveness,
the bitterness
the sweetness
of you.
can you
believe how
endless the
ocean is?
this is bigger
than the world
on ground. bigger
than the desk,
the chair,
the grey hair
and
loneliness.
the universe
and its magic
is as yours
as it's anybody's.
here, you
can take space.
unfurl your
shoulders and
have a breath.
so you do,
in this little
moment
outside in
the sunlight.
you think
and you cry
and you smile
with your
eyes closed.
you live in
this moment —
a full life.

isn't it funny
how memories
become memories?
evaporating
from a room;
becoming a
cloud in the brain?
grey ones
and silver ones.
here, there
is space for all.
there is joy
and trauma
and melancholy.

the sun
is slowly
disappearing,
and life
is still
too long
and too short
for anything.

so you
sit outside
a little longer;
with your silhouette
against a rosy horizon,

you let it rain.

would it be
absolutely,
undoubtedly,
ridiculously
foolish of me
to think you
might think
of me,
as wonderful?
to think
the universe
is holding us
together
in the loveliest
of dimensions?
could i
for a moment
believe, you
aren't disappointed
by my ordinariness,
as i am sometimes?
that you find
my okay-ness sublime.
find comforting
my grammatical
mistakes and
mispronunciations.
maybe i'm
cute to you
with my crooked teeth,
soft stomach,
anxious heart,
shapeless hair.
maybe it's
crazy to imagine
you could
care about
the people
and things
that i love.
completely unrealistic
that i was
loveable
to you for
no particular reason.
there is not a chance
the world works
that way.
laughable
to talk about
a conspiring,
sentient universe.
...but
would it be
clearly foolish
of me to
still
think you
might think
of me
(of me!)
as wonderful?
would i be
just
out of my mind
to think you
might think
of me
at all?

the night echoed
of the downpour,
and this morning
there are new leaves
on the geranium.
i don't have
lovely words
to write today,
but we have
warm coffee
with a little cream.
maybe the ordinariness
of now
is poetry enough —
the spoon
resting on the countertop,
the silver lining
of your back
against the sunlight
as your write
in your notebook.
something lovely
about the bowls
in the cabinet,
about the rosy vase
you brought,
the dandelions
i brought.
you speak,
words swirling
into the music;
you say
something simple.
something about
watering the plants,
or social media
or the laundry.
and that's it
for today.
no grand gestures.
no moving moments.
no big plans
about a brilliant future.
i have
no lovely words
to write.
yet
this
is poetry enough.

the blue coffeeshop
around the corner
is open forever —
a little light on a street
that's otherwise pitch dark.
we're almost always
around the corner
for coffees, teas
and non-conversations.
here you look
like you looked a
decade ago.
here i can mix
and stir you with
hope, denial
and love
to make you into
a favourite person.
here with cups of coffee,
we cry, and kiss and burn
and talk about everything
and nothing at all.
we make it work, here.
we work. together.
aren't you glad this
coffeeshop never closes?
it never closes —
this little light in the dark.
i wonder who works here.

with coffee next to a seventh
floor window somewhere,
i've waited for the rain.
a floating grey sky,
breeze that woke one up;
put one to sleep.
the power's out again.
i'm stressing about
something ordinary i said
a couple days ago, to you.
you know
how anxiety works.
i apologise
i left without
"good to meet you"s
at the sidewalk.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
and never see them again.
you couldn't care less
about the side of the bed
they sleep on,
or if they would like to
have plants with you
around your shared apartment.
but sometimes
you meet a stranger
and you want to buy watermelons
with them, for lunch
at the weekend market.
you have your longest
argument,
walking in a parking lot
and you decide to
take a cab to your
favorite coffeeshop,
instead of heading home.
the stars stay glistening
golden in a purple sky,
when you stroll along
empty roads,
under bridges together —
howling dogs and
soft songs from an
open window for a minute.
you spend an evening
reading derrick brown,
and then a hundred evenings.
in a small kitchen
on a wednesday
you make
macaroni and cheese —
sharp cheddar and
smoked gouda,
a nice wine
picked up
from the weekend market
you frequent.
alone on a terrace
in august, you cry
about a memory you thought
you had forgotten
and they can tell
from your eyes,
when you come back home.
after a long week,
next august,
of feeling lost
and non-conversations
they quietly cry
into your cotton shirt shoulder
and you let them,
hanging on
on the floor.
spoons swirling
in cups of tea
over the years
you learn the ring
of their laughter,
and somethings they
say, sound exactly
like how you would say it.
you move again,
and again
and they take you
to a few music festivals
that you pretend to like.
in the shower
smelling of
coconut bodywash,
after you've made love,
you say you love them
for the first time.
after singing happy birthday
in june another year
they say it back to you,
for the hundredth millionth time.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
and never see them again;
sometimes you
sit in imagination
and make a life out of it.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
sometimes
you don't.

the cold swirly
wind outside
sounds like a
whistling kettle
against my
closed windows.
ankles buried
in a duvet,
cuppa hot cinnamon
coffee, nocturnes
under pink light
- inside it's warm.
thank goodness
it's warm.