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.

There's a box filled with miracles,
In the closet that I keep.
A blanket of fireflies
on the bed that I sleep.
I have a woolen cap of dreams
and I wear that and roam,
around the little place with dim lights,
that I've been calling home.
On the ceiling, dangle with strings
the imaginations that glow.
On the table lies glittering memories,
arranged in a row.
In that little space under the bed.
I've stacked a million wishes in tiny jars.
A wind chime of peace hung beside the window.
The ringing melody of a thousand stars..
The walls are painted with nostalgia
and the enchanting moon's silver light.
There's glitter sprinkled on the floor
dropped by the glittering fireflies.
There are also curtains of creativity
that turn alive, every night.
A big pillow of sweet comfort
that makes everything alright.

I stand beside the window pane.
Just stare sometimes, when I'm alone..
wander down the memory lane,
to that little place with dim lights
that I've been calling home.

She lived in a world of turquoise.
Her eyes were lined with blue.
Her thoughts,
they were like sunshine.
Laced with golden dew.
Days flew by like summer
and the cigarette ashes on her floor.
Scattered the pages of her art,
by her unlit fireplace
and out through the door.
Her bare feet
in my palms.
So elegant and so cold.
The subtle bruises on her back,
like several stories,
untold.
Familiar melancholy in her smile,
like her then came only few.
After all,
she lived in a world of turquoise.
Her eyes were lined with blue.

"I mean I don't like you, like that yet." you said,
and went ahead to kiss me and cup my *******.
I have always been that kid who liked everything.
The cold morning breeze, scalding sunshine, brick walls,
burnt soup, inconsistent laughter, English class,
the weird kid in seventh grade who bullied me and
making crosses on my skin with fingernails over mosquito bites. So,
I did not understand it when you said you did not like me.
I wondered, if it was because my nose was too crooked, or my lips too plump or because my hair didn't have a shape?
It's weird because I like you and for all that makes you.
And it is so simple for me,
to appreciate the subtle balding of your head, the shape of your shoulders, the Pinocchio nose of yours or the fact that you are an *******.
I started to like the taste of your skin, the touch of the camera around your neck, your old, fading jeans and the 'know it all' attitude.
I heard your words in poetry when you kept saying,
that I don't know you well enough to like you or love you or to cuddle with you while I slept.
Darling, we both know you never intended me to know you well enough.
You said you liked how I wrote my words, my short haircut and the curves of my body,
but not enough to like me.
So strange, because it was as easy as breathing,
for me to draw masterpieces out of your naked body painted in
the subtle yellow light of an evening.
I haven't felt as worthless, as I did when I spent hours in the night,
loving each inch of you just to hear that
you don't like me, like that.
Darling when I held you, I held you with all the universe in me.
I held you, hoping to mend every broken part of you,
to make disappearing clouds out of everything
that keeps you awake at night.
It was simple to kiss your skin and to like it,
and to like you.
I liked our time, your kisses, and the husky sound of your voice when you said "I don't like you like that"
Maybe it's stupid that I like you,
like it is stupid to like loneliness, mud spots on a favorite clothing or holding my breath under water.
It's stupid to feel
so unbearably off balance while loving someone so emotionally unavailable and
liking it.
It's stupid
and you are a *******
but I like you.
I like you.

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.

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.

I met her at a crossroad;
She offered to come along.
I walked with my hand,
in her hand.
Singing away our melancholic song.
She was there for quite a while
but I knew what was true.
A girl from a world of sunshine,
would get tired of my world,
so blue.
Well, I cannot blame her.
I'm a broken string, anyway.
When bruises speak for themselves,
there is nothing left to say.
So, with a heavy heart
I kissed her on both her eyes.
And she didn't turn to look twice,
after we bid goodbye.
I started on my journey again;
and it didn't take that long.
for came,
another hand to hold.
Singing away our melancholic song.

Hello, Cobain.
I don't know you
but I know you.
I understand your mind
and I know how annoying it is
when they say,
"I understand."
It kills me when they say,
they are on the same boat.
I refuse to believe that.
and do you, too?
I hate this atmosphere, Cobain.
I am scared of living not dying.
And I am probably
going to live a decade before,
I wither and burn out.
I understand when you say,
to burn out than to fade away.
Because to fade,
it takes a long while.
Longer than you and I can take.
The world is a silly place.
I know you get it.
I know that you understand,
this feeling of don't belong.
I am happy for you, Cobain.
You are where you find your sanity.
Do you know the world better now?
Do people make you laugh?
I am dreaming to be there,
in your arms while you kiss my neck.
And I stroke your hair,
in a state of bliss and knowing.
That you and I are souls,
of the same kind.
We finally meet.

Woke up today
in an unfamiliar place.
The lights didn't shine here,
the way I remembered it
and the curtains danced
to a different tune.
The waves leaped higher than yesterday.
I sank just a little bit.
The walls are a different color,
Still blurry but
a darker shade of grey.
Here, days are night and nights;
well, night.
Neighbors here have vacant stares
and not much to say.
Woke up today
in an unfamiliar place.
it's been a while,

still unfamiliar.

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.

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.

I have lived like this for a longtime now.
Brewing tea at four am's,
watching the duet of my heartbeat and the flickering blue flame in the darkness of my kitchen.
So many nights that turned into mornings at the blink of my rose lit eyes.
Sitting at the same spot on the couch, trying to look through the fishnet skies.
From tea to coffee to cigarettes to joints to big sips of whiskey-cola.
Running away from addictions, time to time.
Running away from places and people before they could form a thought about me.
I live in a prison that I create for myself. Cancelling plans, dodging phone calls and avoiding eye contact.  
Getting drunk and making love to strangers that,
may or may not remember me.
Worrying.  
Worrying about what the world has come to and what my country is doing wrong and about all the innocent people that suffer everyday.
I am worried about my education and the future.
Also,  the life that I am creating for myself.
Worried about the dishes that I still haven't done,  
the mess around me that is growing like wildfire
or the whole minute that I haven't blinked.
I have lived like this for a longtime. Paranoid.  
Looking through the crack in the curtains and at lit windows in far away buildings.
At the dark patches in the sky where the stars aren't there.
Scared that the man in the television has looked into my eyes for too long and that the song playing is too relatable.
Too long have I been scared to now feel anything that is considered normal.
I have lived in my world of anxiety,  irrational fears and slow dancing curtains for too long to smile, laugh and love and not be it just half hearted.
But there is still hope for me in,
Quiet midnight's of making tea and
The one who stares back at me,
through the fishnet skies.

Distances and cardboard boxes;
Maybe I like to move.
The coffee was good today and toasted bread with salted butter,
Was perfect.
I have been feeling loved and alone lately,
What's with the neighbour's loud dog and
dishes that don't wash themselves?
Crazy —
the dates I don't go to.
It was romantic, what the girl I didn't meet said to me.
Distances and unanswered phonecalls;
Maybe I just
like to move.
Stuck in traffic;
I found it beautiful how against bright lights,
you were just hair, nose and chin.
Anyway.
The pile of dishes in the sink is making me sad,
But still
the coffee was good today
and toasted bread with salted butter,
Was perfect.

turning in bed;
the last thing
you said to me
is the first thing
on my mind.
last night's
dishes are
still soaking
in the sink,
in the
morning.
if to love
is to stop
reflecting
in bed
and
wash the
***** -- clean,
then i am
terrible at
love today.

She always looked at herself in the mirror as if she was looking at a familiar stranger. She would never know what to say or how much eye contact to make and so, she would look at her arms instead and tug at her clothes in haste.

But she always noticed something uncommon in the refection of herself in her eyes. It was very different, the way she looked at her like as if she knew more than anybody has ever known about her. But they did not know each other for long. Two weeks they spent together when she was visiting Verona and after that, four months of writing letters to each other. "I woke up thinking of you this morning. The walls reminded me of you, my feet on the floor felt like my skin against yours and even my coffee tasted of you." she once wrote in a letter and those were the most beautiful words anyone had ever thought about her. She found herself melting into her words, those deep eyes and just her existence but she would never let her know; she would hardly admit it to herself. "Darling, people are abstract. The things that you love about me might not be a part of what makes me tomorrow." she would remind her, every time.

Most times she would read the letters over and over again. Some parts even more than the others like this one, "Weddings are such beatific affairs, apart from the moulding uncles, aunts and their unhappy looking partners, dwelling in their grey clouds of eternal loathing. Except that, I love weddings. I danced all night at Patric's reception last night and oh, you know how I can't dance without breaking a bone or two; you saw me that night outside Al Pompiere. Turns out, I dance fantastically once I have a bottle of Sauvignon blanc in my system! My love, how I wish you were there with me at the joyous occasion. Also, I dreamt of you in a white wedding dress, while I sat alone when the music was soft and all the lovers danced unaware of realities, as if in a state of hypnosis. My dear, I could die in that moment for I had seen in my mind the most incomparably magnificent imagination." She always felt unsure of how she exactly felt about those words and how she would reply to that letter. She might have told her that it was sweet of her to write those words but she knew that she felt so much more than that. She had never imagined herself in a wedding dress before and that evening after reading her letter, she closed her eyes and she pictured herself in a white gown and it was as if she grew in her thoughts and her mind opened up to new possibilities that scared but excited her. She made her feel like she was introducing her to herself and that now every time she looked in the mirror she saw a little more of her each time.

She was dusting her bookshelf when her letter arrived that afternoon. She sat on the couch, cross legged while she very patiently opened the envelope, unfolded the paper and started to read. She sounded disheartened and melancholic. "It is not that my love for you depends on the feelings that you reciprocate or that what I feel is conditional but my love, when I was sitting at the coffee shop today going through the letters you have written to me over time, I saw them as if with new eyes. I felt like you were so disconnected. Each one sounded like you were forcing the words onto the paper. Darling, your words lacked you in them, it lacked the meaning that I have seen in your eyes therefore I know for sure that it exists but I am in a state of confusion and paranoia. My mind is consumed in thoughts that you don't trust me yet and that you think I am one of those people that you talk about who call you pretty. On the other hand I wonder, then why would you keep writing to me after every letter I sent you? I don't know what is going on in that fascinating mind of yours but love, do you feel like you are wasting your time on me? I wonder, if you do think that then am I wasting my time? I feel disorientated today...but I hope I find clarity in the next letter you send me."

That was the last letter that she ever sent her and she never replied to it. She overdosed on her antipsychotic medication , the night after she received the letter. They found her in her bedroom midst a pile of journals, clothes and painted canvas boards. They also found several letters that she wrote to herself and replies to the letters that she sent to her own address, as if she was talking to herself.

She always looked at herself in the mirror as if she was looking at a familiar stranger. But she always noticed something uncommon in the refection of herself in, her own eyes.

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.

Love, we are going to meet on Tinder.
or by the sea, in a four 'o clock rain, or maybe
while I sat alone at a cafe pretending to write,
and you'd come to me and say "Hi, I couldn't help but notice
how colorful you are on this grey morning."
or something more realistic.
We'll laugh a lot, make jokes to seem anything but boring,
and initially say a lot of "Um, so..."s to fill the silence.
You are going to catch yourself thinking of the brown in my hair,
the scent of the side of my neck, my skin in morning light
and I am going to memorize the lines on your palms like my favorite song.
Darling,
we'll kiss on my terrace and talk until, skies turn to drizzle and drizzle,
it turns to rain
and we would run, and kiss, and laugh, and kiss and burn like bonfire,
and the blues and reds from our chaos-painted bodies,
will turn into streams of purple, violet, lavender.
For a moment somewhere in between,
I will glance at your closed eyelids while you kiss me,
and wonder if you are here to stay.
In just that glance, I'd see dawns, teacups, naps on airplanes, and
several days, months, maybe years of quick glances at your closed eyelids.
And you, are going to spend days thinking of me at insignificant times,
like an old song from an advertisement you thought you forgot.
We'll talk, and then not talk and I will write you a poem or two
and you will say something like, "I appreciate that."
Years after, I'd be reaching for tea in the cabinet and maybe Twinings would remind me of you and I would stir you,
in my cup of tea like sugar till you dissolve to nothing.
and you will tell another girl
of how you haven't been a part of something serious in a while, "just a couple hookups" you'd say and think of me.
And all that there will be of us,
is an empty terrace somewhere stained purple, violet, lavender.

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.

The world is a well lit ballroom.
The forest; a spread rug.
Daylight's wasting, it's taking forever,
I'm drinking water from a coffee mug.
People dancing, they take their turns.
It's hard to tango when you're just one.
Dancing has now turned to war,
ballroom dancing is so much fun.
After the long day. the sun is pink
the sea crashes at the well lit shore.
People bow and thank me again,
they kiss my hand, don't know what for.
I have been sitting here,
for as long as I know.
Midst spider webs and lady bugs.
People come and people go,
I'm drinking water from a coffee mug.

Come here, my floating feather.
Sit here; at my thigh,
for a while.
And I promise not to move,
or capture you.
Don't be scared, you pretty little thing.
I know, life doesn't treat you well.
Yes, I know. The world is a dark place.
But my love,
I'd be your fireplace wood.
Believe me,
I'd brighten your world.
Wait! Don't fly away yet.
I'm not asking you to be mine.
No, sweet love.
I understand,
that you are a hurricane of fire
and I, only a moth.
Destined to be destroyed.
Come here, my blazing bonfire.
Let me embrace your flame,
while you consume me.
And, even in this last breath
my sweet love,

I smile.

I'm reminded of 8 PM, you walked
that day maybe in mid-July.
With your hands buried in the pockets of your baggy jeans
and strolling behind you, I.
because to hold my hand was probably too much to ask for.
Refreshing sea breeze in my hair, such a beautiful evening,
with candle light burning in our eyes.
and I was watching you while you gazed at the crashing waves of the ocean; my voice only an interruption.
I can still relive that night when I think of it;
I dropped to the floor and cried till I broke.
I stretched out to lean onto you
but you were in my arms instead when I awoke.
I also faintly remember
burning matchsticks, *** and tears
and a blur picture of you stripping me bare
and as dawn illuminated the color of blush
on my neck and shoulders.
I also remember bowls of ramen noodles and PS. I love you
at 5' o clock in the morning.
But I also noticed how you turned your back and slept
after the cinema and the love making was over.

Because when I dream
I dream of flowing breezes through vast lands of green
Streaks of pink in clear skies and
seamless roads that lead to nowhere.
I wish to walk along the empty streets
in the subtle rage of downpour
Spend a lone evening in a strange city
in it's nostalgic allure.

Because when I dream
I dream for rustic memories and
the reflection of bonfire in my eyes
But sometimes,
I wish for neon lights
and blazing winter nights.

joy,
the book fairs
that brought
new worlds
to the closed box;
the money,
given, to buy
two novels.
joy,
the desk
facing the wall
and diaries
to write in.
joy,
the black pens.
joy,
the playground
with the swings
and evening air
tucking wild hair
behind my ears.
joy,
the slides,
the trees,
the gravel.
joy,
the wet grass
near the ducks
at central park.
joy,
the racks
in the kitchen
that held
the bowls
i knew.
joy,
the proxy teacher
who became
the first adult
to love my
silly poetry.
joy,
the balcony
that opened
for fresh air.
joy,
the silent sky
on the silent
walks home.
joy,
the often
empty roads.
joy,
the wrists
of the caretaker
who oiled my hair.
her uncontained love
as she kissed my cheeks,
cooked my meals,
watched me eat,
changed my sheets,
taught me
— raised me.
joy,
the soft existence
and companionship
of my two sisters.
joy,
the people
who came
and cradled me
and my big life
without hesitation;
comforted me
with their
friendship
and compassion
and tea.
joy,
the loved ones.
joy,
the growing,
the learning,
the loving.
oh such joy,
the mother
in the world
around me.
oh such joy,
the nurture
in everything.

Are you gone?
I can't hear you in my head,
Anymore.
It is unsettling to wear clothes that don't smell like you.
I have been stroking my arm with closed eyes
But it is not even close to feeling like yours
And that makes me sad.
Makes me mad that
Time flows and men go and
It is so strange that it at all matters.
Now I am staring at old buildings,
Thinking of your skin in low light,
Your face when you close your eyes
And wondering,
If you still wake up at dawn?
Tell me,
Are you gone?

You talk about your happy place,
your rainbow dreams
and those weary eyed lies.
But oh my darling,
the sunlight hurts my eyes.
You take my hand
and kiss my bruises
you kiss my lips and sing.
But every touch of yours,
every little bit stings.
Oh, but you're still here
with your starry lullabies
trying to make me sleep.
Baby get away from me,
your voice just
makes me want to scream.
I'm sorry my darling.
Can't you see?
I'm not trying to say goodbye.
I'm trying to tell you
that you are as clear as the sky
and the sunlight hurts my eyes.

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.

She loves me like
the bitter coffee,
swirling in my mouth.
Her eyes blink
like the stars in
my uneven universe.
I love her like
all the dark things,
very... very secretly.
And all her little,
wandering kisses
are surely not for me.
I love her from a distance
for she is the one
but not mine.
We lie down
midst cigarette ashes
and puddles of wine.
It's raining in our home
and her eyes,
a violent seashore.
The world outside is knocking
but we are making love
against the door.
She puts on her shirt
and leaves me bare
without a doubt.
She loves me like
the bitter coffee,
swirling in my mouth.

My throbbing vein and
a sour taste
like a sour shot of
tequila,
still coating my tongue.
Tequila and the
taste of cigarette sparks.
My sun kissed thighs
and teeth marks.
My head heavy; walking
to the kitchen sink.
It's past December.
Your love
is like a bad hangover.
A beautiful night;
I wish I could even remember.

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.

The truth about me
is that my teeth need to be fixed
but I am too scared of the dentist.
Something about the whiteness of a clinic
and the smell of a previous patient's tongue,
makes me want to wait for dentures.
I am the kind of person,
you could bully and make cry,
to help yourself fit in.
Somewhere between society's rights and wrongs,
I paint my eyes too dark, struggle to smile in photographs
and constantly worry about getting *****, the next time I leave my house.
The truth about me
is that I am paranoid that everyone is lying to me,
that I am a potential alcoholic and my favorite hobby,
is a Russian roulette of self destruct.
I do not understand best friends, brown rice,
or how one cannot shut up about how much weight they need to lose.
The truth about me
is that I don't know how to say "I love you" and mean it.
That every time I try to build a home, it breaks.
I am a breezy sunrise, reeking of bad decisions,
sad memories with happy endings.
The truth is,
I will waltz into your life and make your skin tingle with soft kisses.
I will,
break bottles, kiss your ear, make you cry, make you laugh, run away, hike mountains, **** with your head and slowdance with you, till we mix like oil paints, smiling, and swaying till nothing at all,
exists except our whispers, and the blue-purple air that surrounds us.
Love. I am happiness, chaos and nature
and the truth about me,
is that I am not going to stay
but I promise you,
I will be unforgettable.

It rained so hard, she stood to await
midst mid night it had been so late.
Her beautiful eyes looking through the rain,
yet another time, he betrayed again.

It was in autumn, the city gold.
He said - " Hey Maria, I love you so "
Till it turned winter, the night to dawn
yet another time, he was gone.

Her pillow soaked wet every night.
She wasn't strong enough to fight.
He whispered - '' Maria, I'll never leave you alone "
Yet another time, he chilled her to the bone.

" Girl you don't have to be scared-
-Maria, I'm always going to be there "
" I don't think I want us to be together.
Maria, I can't be there forever "

His touch still lingers to her skin.
To him it didn't mean anything.
"Maria you mean so much to me"
Yet another time he's nowhere to be seen.

It rained so hard, she stood to await.
"Maria be there, don't be late"
Her beautiful eyes looking through the rain,
yet another time, he betrayed again.

Orange evening in my room.
He's kissing the hollow of my back.
His brooding eyes; look into mine,
he has my heart trapped in a sack.
The passion in our short breaths, is real.
The way he tugs at my hair,
makes my eyes roll back into my sockets.
"I love you" he says, so easy.
I'm not more than a lost locket.
Pressed against his dulcet collarbone,
rocking together in our cradle of lust.
He's biting my earlobe...
I'm digging my nails at his back.
His wedding ring on the table,
collecting dust.

I remember the first time
When I knew what drowning felt like
It was in the gaze of his seashore eyes
And it would only be a lie,
If I said I tried hard enough to breathe.
It wouldn't be half true,
If I told you,
It wasn't more time that I wanted in his
Restless breathing waves,
Crashing against my collarbone.
His grasp like ocean currents that
Keep my arms as if in shackles,
No matter how hard I tried.
His fingers like, seawater
Seeping between my thighs.
Sinking in the sleepless ocean of his
Broad shoulders enveloping my skin and bones. I found home,
In his unloving stares and his need to only destroy me.
It's beautiful that he exists; as a seashore
Drenched in rain.
The first time I learnt what drowning felt like,
I didn't want to breathe again.

My curtains are on fire.
My cat has died.
Running water in my bath tub;
I'm lost in her drunken starry eyes.
Black tea in the kettle
is all over the kitchen floor.
The door is locked from the outside.
I'm drowning in her downpour.
She twists the knife in my thigh,
I'm the vast coral sea.
Pouring soothing whiskey at my wound
she says -
"Make love to me."
My therapist has been calling for a while,
If only he knew how I feel.
He says she is only a delusion
but believe me, she is real.
My torso is on fire.
I tell her we are going to die.
She laughs and draws on my face with glass,
I'm lost in her drunken starry eyes.

I say, **** it.
**** the world.
These words will,
never make sense to you.
Yes,
I use disgraced abuse
Well,
**** it.
My scraped knees are beautiful.
The tear of my thighs; luminous.
Dark shadows beneath my eyes
and my bleak personality,
perfection.
Does my pretense happiness,
upset you?
Oh love,
pretense is the only real thing about me.
I am made of lies
and coral smiles.
I say, **** it.
**** the world.
You are only a theory.
There is hardly reality in you.

I'm not more than,
a coquette.
But I fall in love sometimes.
I'm not more than,
drizzle,
In the vast sea of cry.
I'm not more than,
a sozzled thought
sobering up by dawn.
I'm as meaningless,
as the words I write
and the emotions that come along.
I'm only a vain prayer.
Not more than, a high.
I'm dancing along the strings
to the melody of goodbye.
I'm nothing more,
than nothingness
of this abyss, I call life.
I'm the pale skin,
pressed against
your judgmental knife.
I'm not more than,
a poet.
Every word I write is a lie.
I'm not more than,
drizzle
in the vast sea of cry.

Hi love,

What I love the most about this letter is that you might or might never read this. The uncertainty is more comforting to me than knowing what will be. Maybe that is why I am going away from you; maybe that is why I have not and probably will never respond to your messages.

When we first started talking, you promised to give me the last teabag in your backpack that you carry, but you never did. You did give me though – several three AMs’ of not-friends, a night of drenching in the rain and the little room in your mind where I exist. I never understood why I felt so deeply about you, because I never really liked you. My heart broke, each time you left me cold before the sun came up. I cannot explain darling, how it hurt to consider possibilities of this turning into a wonderful magic when in reality, you are only free when you are *****. My beautiful daydream, I do not blame you. Maybe there is beauty that I do not recognize, in falling in love with something that you are supposed to hate.

I will always cherish that one time that you fell asleep for a while with me. You smelled of the soft love we made and sleep. And most of all darling, you smelled of you; how I miss the smell of you. I remember, every time after you left, I would clench onto the sheet and lie down because in a strange way, you smelled of home to me. When I was in college, all my outstation classmates would go home in the vacations and I’d realize that I have no place to call ‘home’, nowhere that I can be at love and peace- that I can call my own. Maybe that is why, I always look for home in the people that I come across. Is it vain to do that? I certainly hope not.

It is hard for me to stay away from you. I always end up soaking up every last minute that you choose to give to me. But this time I need to go, love. I do not have a lot of time to invest in this beautiful world of you, I and heartbreak. I am an ocean-girl, my daydream. And when I love, I love with all of my ocean heart. I am finding it very hard to contain my ocean self in the tiny jars of your twisted words, and half-hearted midnights.

Now that this is the last time that I would communicate with you, let me tell you this embarrassing thing. I spent an hour on an insignificant evening, stalking your mother on Facebook. But then again, I stalk friends of friends of friends, all the time. The reason that I am bringing this up is because while going through her pictures, I found this one photograph of her younger self holding baby-you in her arms and smiling. I had taken a screenshot of that picture and was going to show you and talk about it, but we never met after that so I would like to acknowledge it here. I just want to express that, the photograph was one of the most beautiful things that I have ever come across. The soft light on her skin, her long uncombed hair and the beautiful mix of joy and melancholy in her smile- I looked at that picture for a longtime, overwhelmed. I knew in that moment that I was in utter love with the woman in the photograph. It was surprising how I did not hesitate once to call it love. That photograph for some reason, means more to me.

I hope the pastel drawing of a sunset that I gave you, always makes your heart happy. You really are like a sunset to me. You are always evolving and changing in dark and light shades of your existence. I hope you always find reasons to love every inch that creates you. I also hope that someday, you find someone who you can share a night of peaceful sleep with, someone who paints each breath of yours with miracles and love.

So here it is darling. Here is the end.

So long.

The green shirt that is lying in a pile with my other clothes, does not look green to me anymore. I wore it once and washed it about five times because I always forget where I toss it.

As I sit here in the corner of my bed; my eyes burning from lack of sleep but still not tired enough— I see the faded green shirt, crumpled with my old pair of jeans and five other shirts that I never wear. It once meant more to me, that shirt. Now it is just weary and old, collecting memories and dust.

I cannot wear it anymore because the misty green reflection in my eyes take me back, to when I first met you. The smell of cold coffee and the roughness of tissue papers from our first date makes me swoon. It reminds me, of several letters that I wrote to you with silly scribbles on the top and the crossword puzzle that I drew that now deserves a place in your bin. Takes me back to the seashore at night, candle light and the photographs you took of me wearing it. I can still feel the coldness of the plastic cup with the orange slurpee that we shared and laughed till our stomachs hurt, the way you held me every time you came to see me at my place. I think about the weekend we spent together, the matters we argued over; the days, the nights, afternoons and evenings that I cried alone in a grey room while anxiety twisted its knife deeper into my torso. The green shirt in the pile, reminds me of your beautiful smile, yoga class twice a day and how I trusted you with things when I was the most vulnerable and opened up to you and Oh, how you used it against me. Your shirt makes me think of how much my sister liked you, your childish laughter and the short story you wrote about not wanting your shirt back because you think I'm huge and I must have stretched it all out.

Out of all the things that we could and could not have said to each other— I'm sorry for stretching your shirt out.

The room smells of whiskey and cigarettes
and the sweet scent of her hair.
vecchi difetti, playing in the background
to move an inch, I wouldn't dare.
Her delicate wrist, thrown across my breast
and our bare ankles sticking out of the sheet.
All I hear is her uneven breath.
The sound of my heart catching up to her beat.
I close my eyes and breathe her in
she curls up, pressed against me bare.
I open my eyes to look at my love
and as always, she isn't there.

I cried with a throbbing head
and pills in my hands and floor.
I cried while I wrote to you—
"please come meet me." you said,
"I am coming." when I said "my head
Hurts so..."
"I'm coming." you said and I took one
sedative, scared that I might
Take them all.
"I am scared. Please come to me." I wrote
as I felt ***** and tears,
at the back of my throat.
"I'm coming." you said, switched your
phone off and went to yoga class.

It's a tiring job
to lift the teabag out of
my cup before,
I drink it.
So I drink it.
In fact, I have started to admire
its soft touch on my lower lip,
kissing me.
My beloved cup of tea
is the only good in my world.
But am I not lucky
to have her warm love,
help me get through this cold morning?
Her cinnamon breath
and lingering sweetness
that stays on my warm tongue
is happiness.
In an endless world
my dear cup of tea,
you're all I have.
Just you,
and me.

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.

Autumn day and coral leaves.
Time and time; there's not much to gain.
People live and people die.
I'm merely a boat,
collecting rain.
I'm still here,
when they come along
with their sweet kisses and goodbyes.
I'm still here,
singing the same 'ol song.
Verse by verse, your beautiful lies.
Laughing during the sunshine,
I'm radiating at the
break of day.
Oh, here comes again...
drizzle. drizzle. drizzle.
Here, it's mostly grey.
Oh, what more do you want?
I'm tired,
my omniscient little crowd.
I'm merely a boat,
collecting rain.
Someday, I too will drown.