awkwardly i
wake up before
you, the first
morning at this
house. warm
breath in cold
air. the kitchen
sits quietly, next
to the dining
room chairs. i
open the door
to the front
garden and
look at my
phone. stare
at the silence.
distant bird;
hazy sunlight.
there is nothing
here today.
nothing here
when you
are asleep.

let me love
you, quietly.
hold the
words that
you're too
afraid to say;
paint your
soft skin pink
with fingertips.
i would like
to share this
morning light
that slowly
warms your
eyes, wrists,
your reticent
smile.
give me
the space to
name you
wonderful, to
fix lamps and
rosy lights in
the grey parts
of you. you and
i could make
spaceships out
of the papers
piling at
your desk.
real spaceships
that go to
real places.
if it's okay, i
would like to
make surreal
plans with you.
make cotton
skirts and shirts
for us to wear
to the seaside.
let me kiss
the parts
of you that
you don't love.
let me love
them, quietly.
make the
coffee cups
and flowerpots
into loved ones.
run my
fingers through
your hair.
pack
sandwiches
and notebooks
for the
spaceship.

clothes
unpacked
all over the
hotel room;
we sit at the
coffee-table
chairs in early
morning, and
quietly reconsider
our plans to go
for that walk.
coffee *** on
the quiet table;
ceramic cup
in my hands. i
look to see if
i can tell what
you really want.
you talk about
the views from
that place we
planned to go to.
i ask if you
are sleepy.
you — dressed,
with shoes
and all
look at me —
dressed in
a blanket.
wavy steam
from the
coffee ***,
soft buzz
of the air-
conditioning,
downstairs
your car in
lamplight.

simple luxuries
the swirly scent
of black tea
with ginger
on the stove,
the artful
movement
of you sitting
on the floor
and weaving
plain things
into magical
things. more
than enough
the frozen
milk with
sugar on
summer
afternoons,
the softness
of your fingers
through my
hair on
nights i
couldn't
sleep.
sweet comfort
the embroidered
napkins, the
coriander in
things, the
smell of
incense and
everything that
you prayed for.
grand treasure
teaching you
to spell our
names on
old notebooks,
asking you
for different
kisses all day,
the times
we were
distracted
enough to
laugh.
simple luxuries
to wake up
and find you,
sit on the
sofa with the
television on
hearing stories
from your
childhood.
oh, such
sweet comfort
the black
ginger tea.
more than
enough
to have
had you.

dragonflies
in sweet
summer air;
i am alone
and i have
seashells.
i crave for
the plastic
sunflowers
on our
childhood
dining table.
i miss the
devil's ivy
growing
from the
green bottle.
the small
nameless
birds are
trying to
make nests
in the balcony;
an ocean in
high tide
is crashing
against
the glass.
i am cold
and these
wet clothes
are slowly
drying on me.
i am alone
and i came
only for the
seashells.
alone,
and in
circles
these
dragonflies
in warm
summer air.
everything
somehow
becomes
you.

a kettle
on the
stove;
the windows
are closed.
listen...
you can
hear
the
rain
on
the
roof,
the glass,
the balcony,
the
ocean
that we
are on
in this
blue-green
boat.
do we
still make
tea when
the world
is falling
apart? do
we still
talk of
the world,
when we
have left
awhile?
quiet.
you're
watching
the
movie
at the
window.
blackberries
spilled
over the
table.
quiet.
daylight
against
your
ear,
neck
shoulder,
arm.
­is it
okay
if i
ask
questions?
are you
happy
on this
boat?
the kettle
is whistling,
and the
books
have
shifted
from the
motions
of the sea.
do you
think
we
might
be
lost?
do you
think
we
should
take
a nap?

you carry
flecks of
blue-green
paint on
your hands
and nails
to your
table-y
day job
everyday.

— my
to-do list,
today,
asked me
to write
a poem.
and i
think
there is
infinite
poetry
in that.