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.

the smell of
coconut oil and
warm coffee in
the morning,
rustle of the
pages from a
notebook,
sweet minutes
of silence
between the
breaking of your
pink sleep and
checking the time:
love more things
while you can.
yes, today is going
to be as ordinary
as tomorrow. and
maybe the day after
will be the same.
so break a stick
of cinnamon, let it
simmer in your tea.
move your furniture
around,
let yourself be
a little late for work
and love more things
while you can.
while your sink is
hopelessly clogged
and the rainwater seeps
through the walls,
when someone has
been very rude to you,
during the power outage:
look up the words
and sing along to a
favourite song. go out
all by yourself to get
a new toothbrush.
also whole wheat pasta,
fresh tomatoes, garlic,
basil and cheese
for a hot dinner.
bask in the sun
a little more.
make friends with the rain.
laugh when you really want
to laugh.
recognize when you're
anywhere but present —
bring yourself back.
and in the middle of that
and most of all:
love more things
while you can.

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.

the skies in saccharine town
change all the time.
sometimes rosy,
at times lavender —
the windows are always
a surprise in the evenings.
"how are you today?"
"she doesn't love me."
i am sorry she doesn't love
you. and that most days
you don't love yourself.
making tea and something
comforting to say,
in the kitchen
i'm singing my favorite song.
the bugs outside are singing too,
and the sun is magnificent.
leaned against the glass window,
i watch you talk about
everything that you hate.
"my thighs, my mouth, my hair
my voice, my stomach, my heart"
and i'm sorry
you don't see
how quickly life is going away.
your stomach is soft
and lovely, and i like
your warm breath
that keeps you alive.
"is the tea good?"
you nod.
you like the tea —
that's a beginning.
i want to ask you
to work together
on making a sweet life.
and breaking away
from the system, and politics
and what everyone wants.
i want to ask you
to build from nothing
and make a very, very small
and meaningful life.
and i want to tell you
to give all your love to
you, till you find someone
else to share it with.
"i'm never going to find love"
— but you are scared
and insecure.
and i'm sorry
that you're missing the skies
of saccharine town.

sometimes in the summer
we wake up in a pool of sweat.
never been much of an air conditioner-person
— a lot of unnatural cold air triggers my migraine.
and we both don't love owning big appliances and furniture.
so you open a window,
and your shoulders —
bare skin against the new sun
looks so delightful.
we complain about the heat
and i look in the freezer
to check if i remembered to fill the ice trays
for our iced coffee this morning.
they are always there —
glistening, glorious cubes of ice.
you remember when i forget.
you use the shower after me,
while i put on a breezy, cotton something
to the meditative pitter-patter.
we both smell of lime and coconut
and suddenly the air is so much cooler.
sometimes, after our little ritual
we get in bed again for another hour.
my hair slightly wet from the shower,
your minty breath —
we fall asleep again,
comfortably,
as the sweet summer air
grazes against our cold skin.
what a luxury.

sweet cricket-chirp
on a rainy day;
we have nothing much
to say.
the day goes on like a day
and nothing happens.
unchanged —
the oceans and the air
and we are both scared
of just that.
if love happens,
does it not happen
like in the movies?
do i not burst into song
and hope that everything
goes wrong,
to go right again?
is it even love
if the music doesn't play

now

here,

as we bid goodbye?
does it matter why
it's not as lovely
when it's easy
to leave and
to get by?
maybe
we can hope
to try.
and love,
maybe
just maybe,
we can love
in the most ordinary way
here
so comfortable —
sweet cricket-chirp,
rain
and nothing much
to say.

the hum
of a coffee grinder
and suddenly air
that smells of
roasted coffee.
warm breath
on a cold night,
walking outside.
on the floor,
laughing
so much.
mixing teal
with gray
then lilac,
from that one afternoon
of painting sunsets
with oil paints.
kisses
on the forehead
then eyelids,
then cheeks,
then nose
and ears.
a big nap
in a hotel room
after a morning
of wandering around.
naturally,
wordlessly falling into
making love
at dawn.
the beach
with a beer,
or maybe tea
as the sun dissolves
into nothingness.
a car ride
and a favorite song
in a rainy midday.
absolutely forgetting
something sad
you thought you
would never forget.
flowers
gifted on an ordinary day.
stories
of good things
happening to
good people.
cold floors.

i wish you
everything
that i love.

can you leave me out
of the stories
that you choose
to tell them?
i will leave you
out of mine.
we can be
like this,
for another little moment
before it's absolutely
time.
under this sheet
the world
is so small
and so big.
between blinks,
we have bought
our first plant together.
and a soapy bubble
from you doing the dishes,
has escaped the sink
— glittery —
towards the sunlight.
you just called to say
that the colours
of an umbrella
reminded you of me.
between blinks,
it's raining
on an April afternoon,
and i brought us pastries
from the bakery downstairs.
i can't believe
how breathtaking
you look today.
we are on an airplane
laughing about yesterday.
out on a breezy terrace,
look —
is that a firefly?

between blinks

we're back again,
under this sheet.
and it's time.

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.

where do wildflowers
come from?
here
in morning light
you can see
the light brown in my hair.
lying here,
time goes by
before we know it.
the sun
is drawing you —
long forehead,
then the curve
of your nose,
the top
of your lip
aglow;
dust
like stars
in the air
around us.
the pink sky
is reflecting on your skin,
and you're thinking
about something.
never planned
or calculated,
wildflowers grow
naturally
where they're supposed to;
where there is
a sign
of nurture.
turning to me,
shoulder against the window;
you —
a silhouette.
the golden hour
envelopes
us;
i
giggle
against your teeth.
it never
felt right,
but
i'm moving
out
and you can keep
the apartments,
cafés
and the good parts.
in morning light —
this is
perfect,
but
there are no wildflowers;
there never were.

and like all things
it ends
with a sigh,
a laugh,
sadness.
you've forgotten
to water
the plants
and
yourself.
you're making
sunrise
in a saucepan this morning.
you have run out of yellow
but
you have a pink,
magenta
turquoise,
emerald
and some lavender.
the grapes in the vineyard
are blushing
and
the endless winter flowers
are looking for you.
what clothes
have you packed?
take a jacket
and socks;
maybe a flask
of warm sunrise.
you're leaving again
and there's a blue train
at dawn.
the stars
brought lunch.
wind in your hair,
unheard of
such inexplicable joy —
already forgotten
what has gone by.
see
like all things,
here,
it begins
again.

the fitful sound of her shoes on the pavement on a really cold morning — it couldn't possibly get worse than it is today. the sun is turning but dawn is reluctant and heavy-eyed. crickets on a branch are singing to a nocturne. how can something be so sad, yet leave room for a bite of buttered toast with tea for breakfast and a laugh at noon? mixing swirls of watery light blues, pinks and peach-yellows to a dark blue sky, and feeling like you've lost something — could it possibly get worse than this? the pebbles look indigo under this light; the trees are sympathetic and breezy. under her feet, the dust; little twirl of air changing direction at her wrist; the suddenly glorious morning sky and, the quiet universe are conspiring to lift her up into the endless nothings, caress the corals and purples, and — any moment now — catapult her into the magnificently surreal magic that she is destined for. she is carrying her heavy heart a little further — couldn't get worse than this, could it? as if a deep breath, the trees stretch to the light, the dust shifts, a twinkle in the new sun — here comes.

i
miss
you.

i
miss
you.

air,
better with socks on;
nights
that still smell of bonfire —
it's sweet to know,
there is familiarity.
funny how,
the meanest of people
have cared sometimes;
the worst of times
have been so beautiful,
once in a while.
so easy to love,
so awkward,
so unseen,
often right
and
wrong for now —
i recognize
myself
over the years.
scared and lovely,
inauthentic
in the best way,
walking on the left
of a road
at sunset,
dancing
to the music
inside stores
and
hiding from people
in corners
and notebooks —
it's sweet to know,
there is still familiarity.
the stories
never align,
and there is always more
to sadness,
happiness
and love.
but here:
making shapes
of tissues,
forgetting directions,
laughing
to fill silences,
drawing waves
at the bottom
of ruled pages,
falling
for everyone;
the moon
still hazy with love
for the sun,
salty chips
and
thoughtless lip bites —
i know
i will always be here,
the same
and familiar.

what?
nothing.
i have nothing
to say.
for the lack of plea
and expression,
anyway,
I wrote you
a list of quiets:
- turning of a cab
into my lane at 10:30
- stirring sugar in tea
- closing the door
behind you
- last word in a letter
- squeezing toothpaste
onto a wet toothbrush
- millisecond to realize
something's funny
- a song
from the neighbor's window
- the longest argument
- drinking cold water
- searching for the towel
- kissing against a wall
- moment of not-over-this
at the kitchen sink, washing
dishes and spoons
- walking over to a friend
- switching on the string lights
- anxiety outside a restaurant
- warm feet on cold floor
first thing in the morning
- i think,
i really think
we can make the sweetest life.

the flowers are not real,
and our friends
are pouring in.
you are quoting a film;
pouring the wine
into imaginary glasses.
i made a playlist,
moved the furniture
and showed you
my collection of photos
of every time
I saw your name
anywhere.
the conspiracy is not real
and
the invisible party is tonight.
we took our time
to do nothing
and get nowhere.
they are celebrating us —
the empty room of no one.
no memory
of the next part.
you are not real,
and sometimes
when you really want
something,
it does not happen.

as i empty the teacup
i offer as ashtray
to friends who like to smoke,
under a streak of sunlight,
i contemplate
my place in the world;
if this is in any way
meaningful.
sad, happy
and pretending,
i'm often confused
about identity.
leaning against the sink
reluctant to do the dishes,
i contemplate
my place in the world.
at twenty two
and freer,
i may be
miscommunicating.
throwing away
forgotten,
and rotten vegetables
from the refrigerator,
i contemplate
my place in the world.
i may be
absolutely wrong
about everything,
but for now
i clean.

and when i've left
does the grass
recall how i felt
and do the ordinary
accidentally remember me?
the sun mixing in
like watercolor
is singing a familiar song.
somewhere
beside lavender flowers
i've lived a little life.
the wine
is bitter
and i've let go
of the idea of you,
but do you think
the sidewalk remembers
the flask of tea
and the non-conversation?
do you think
you are important to me
in a different world
and i make you happy?
the flowers are wilting
and the outside
scares me.
however,
life is magic —
the tea is still here
and i think
the ordinary
accidentally remembers me.

under soft sunlight
at the beach we left
in seven days,
on our vacation three years ago,
the boat is collecting rain.
the weather is like
air conditioning
and i've forgotten
things.
wonderful things
have happened to me
and i've been happy;
i've been
weird.
i'm never used to
the keypad
and i've found
old conversations.
the color in the drawings
change all the time.
you
and the vacation,
are blurry.
i don't like
the playoffs anymore
and i don't
mind you smoking.
it's been a long day
and three years —
lazing around
in an evening-balcony
's unremembered
yet
the boat
at the beach we left
is withering
but still
collecting rain.

don't lose heart,
when you are
going wrong
when
the people you love,
don't seem to love enough.
don't lose heart
for the world is still
splendid.
the sea is never dull,
the sky never not starry;
when you are
breaking and
lost,
the world stays
conspiring.
stop wanting
from a world
that does not owe you.
learn
to love,
for the world
remains splendid;
the world
remains
good to you.

the florist had sunflowers today — it's been a good day. carelessly placing the keys on the table, she replaces last week's wilted lilies with big sunflowers. a girl with a thoughtless routine, of course, she then walks over to the kitchen racks — tea leaves, brown sugar. the world was never "going to the dogs" for her, political conversation was not enough to rile her up; she never wanted to be a part of a legendary romance or start a revolution. she wanted a nice bath after a long day, good tea and inspiring poetry on an uninspiring afternoon. sometimes it's overwhelming to look outside — all the square lights from the square windows in endless buildings; all the people. so she looks down, making swirls on the countertop with her fingertips. spectacular was not in the extraordinary; it was in the details lost in a glimpse. swaying to a song in her head she undoes the clasps of the brown-sugar jar. in the sweet essence of a paradoxical universe, it's quite reasonable to say, there was something astounding about her ordinariness.

you like the streets
in the rain
and you don't care
much about your shoes.
learning to grow up
in rented apartments
hasn't been easy.
I know,
sometimes you don't want
to get the bread,
and want
someone to rub your back.
darling, you've come so far
from stealing roses
and melancholic sunsets.
washing the day away
in the shower,
i hope you sing;
hope that you take a chance
and learn
from what scares you.
make the mistakes again,
and again and again
and hold on to the good.
when you feel broken
and tired,
do the best you can —
feel.
in your darkest,
believe
in your imagination.
like the rain;
forget the shoes.

so ordinary,
other things.
when i first saw you
sadness made sense.
coffee
and a heavy heart last week,
sitting on stairs
nowhere to go
was for a reason.
us,
here,
just before "too late"
is not coincidence.
succulents, bookshelves,
refrigerated milk —
we will make home here.
long ago in school,
the year i broke my wrist;
sitting at my desk
i imagined this.
so,
here you are
just before "too late",
and so
unmistakable.

I have feelings;
you're dramatic.
as the back of my notebook
soaks in condensation,
at a remote coffeeshop-table
somewhere,
i check my phone again.
you're misunderstanding love
and I wish I had the time
to explain.
i'm glad
there's hardly anyone here;
waiters too bored to check.
leaning against a window
i hope everyone is happy.
you don't know love;
i have nothing to say.
wildflowers —
you can't plan them.

looking for you
in places you don't go to;
i'm feeling lost.
do you miss home?
do you miss me folding
the clothes you put out to dry
and the tea i make?
i miss home —
biscuits you know i'd like
and when you clean
the kitchen counter.
my feet hurt
and i'm tired,
and i want to cry a little bit.
closing my eyes
to the sound of the ocean,
i'm thinking of
me on the floor with the laptop;
you on the bed.
other people are scary
and i'm wishing
for the biscuits i like,
with you.
all this time
i'm not sure what i was looking for,
but now
i'm looking for you
and i don't want to head home yet.

I'm tying my hair up
into a messy something
as it starts to rain outside.
The radio is low in the background,
and we're on an empty road.
Reflecting city lights;
leaning against the window.
My shoulder, neck, eyes
are becoming the colors
of a traffic light.
The downpour is cold
and beautiful.
I'm warm and tired
and unsure
about where I'm going.

the light is soft here;
I feel oddly present
and cold.
we're playing like a really fast-paced
film in my head;
everything — years
are going by quickly.
do you know of mornings so early;
sleepy stars haven't left yet?
it's magic, this moment.
I feel like anything I wish for
now
will come true.
the skies are not entirely blue,
and my eyelids
are still heavy with sleep.
alone here,
it's the opposite of lonesome.
we're playing like a film in my head,
so many years — gone.
the stars are slowly fading away
and if anything I wish for
in this moment
will come true,
I wish for you.

Walking through a sea of sellers and buyers,
shaking your head "no" a few times
you find a beautiful shop of tired, mellow people looking through  a contrast of clothes.
The sun is suddenly shy
and your eyebrows relax.
Your cheeks are warm and pink;
hair dry and sweaty at the same time.
You smile at the shopkeeper
who smiles at you as he suggests a floral scarf.
Trying on beaded shoes at a small street-shop,
you're becoming something different.
You're not who you were a year ago,
in February or
even yesterday.
Your voice has a slightly new tone,
eyes shine quite differently
and your hair is growing another kind of wild —
You are lovely in another way.
The world has comfortably shifted
just a little bit
and you're at the corner taking another road.
Suddenly in a busy market
in the sunlight,
you've become you in a new way.

wiping the outside off my face with a soapy tissue,
I wash my hair,
get dressed
and head to dinner.
coffee and the smell of cigarettes
from an European couple at the next table,
I am letting myself have alone time.
not writing much about anything,
only occasional "i'm here"s
and "i'm there"s
in my notebook.
waiting for the cab at an empty-ish street
of returning bicyclists and slow cart-pullers,
I felt the ocean crashing against the insides of me.
just me here,
and red car-lights
reflecting in my eyes.
returning to nothing in particular.
taking off my shoes,
my bracelet,
my shirt;
i'm wiping the outside
off my face.
with my feet up on a glass table
in nothing
but a necklace I know I will struggle to unclasp,
i'm looking at the streetlights in the city from this big hotelroom window; thinking
of asking for another chocolate-coffee for one.

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.