And what happens to the teacups after we've left?
Clinking, clanging at the table;
carried, catapulted, cleaned.
Do they know of our lips that tasted of each other,
or things said, unsaid?
Where do eight years go?
Just, ****!!
― gone.
Or still occurring
in folds between our conscious blinks, our separate times midst now and then.
Do you and I exist again?
and again, and again?
Crossing the street again;
in the grass, under the blanket,
at the park again?
Are we kissing
again?
The lights and the people,
brown irides and darker pupils of this stranger,
and I,
round and round on this merry-go-round
― it's déjà vu.
Am I in the 'Again'?
Maybe déjà vu is Again, after all.
I'm at the beach once more;
they've built new houses.
You must've changed as well;
built new houses.
But I only remember old handwriting,
legs on legs, eating at 5am, icecube dragged across my skin;
I remember you in Agains.
Clinking, clanging at the table,
our teacups.
carried, catapulted, cleaned,
brought again ―
Maybe they
have seen ghosts of us
over again.

I don't need much from you.
I don't need promises, or a double bed or your truths.
I have lived a life enough to appreciate the little things
I have.
I have spent enough afternoons lying in monsoon's damp heat,
listening to crickets chirp,
a particular rat's squeaking,
whistling birds at a distance..
to know,
what matters the most.
Maybe I need from you most, to exist. Promise to be real in present time;
say for sure that you will look at me, and touch me
and wander with me.
I don't want you to be mine or make me yours.
I can't assure you I wouldn't change. But if you still always exist, somewhere, somehow in time
...I promise to stroke your back till you fall asleep,
and make you pots of tea.
Just live here, touch my cheek
and when you're walking too fast,
stop once to let me catch up.
You keep walking and waking;
dreaming, typing, eating, singing that song about blue skies.
Times I stroke your knuckles with my fingertips
when we are sitting together,
maybe hold my hand or...
look at me sometimes like you know me.
And in return my darling,
I promise you ― my heart and goldfish kisses.

Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather in monsoon and you —
I found you
In an apartment with a sunset wall and cane chairs.
Like an oyster closed shut against the waves of salty seawater; closed against the sun reflecting golden-green.
You are more than body, clothes, cigarettes, water; the scatter of thoughts and fog within you.
There you are,
So far afloat in a sea — golden and green, and I found you!
Do you ever wonder if the world is all imagination? Stardust for skin; the road and our houses a sandcastle creation?
Oh, what are the chances of birthday phonecall-kisses from my grandfather before he died; unread messages and wet eyelashes on a lonely night?
Scratched and bruised and cracked by an ocean, darling you and I — what are the chances?
What are the odds you'd survive your storm and go on,
Past seaweed and sharks?
That counting days, "one, two, ...thirty-seven thousand"
I'd have found fallen hibiscuses at bus stops, a card in my bicycle-basket and on a sublime day midst salty seawater, golden and green... I'd find you?
Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather and you —
I found 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.

Yesterday my sister and I lay on the bed,
while I read to her my diary entries from 2010.
We laughed about my desperate bouts of affection for my crush that year,
the time I broke my right wrist, outdated song references and how everyday started with "Today is the worst."
Sitting with my friend and her brother, he asks me "Isn't PTSD the thing that happens to soldiers on war?" I nod to him and say,
"Yes but I am the soldier who cannot come home from my war, can only come home to it."
I don't like the taste of my tea that I spent fifteen minutes making,
but I am going to at least drink half of it.
Every time I hear a love song, it reminds me of my caretaker; She is the only one I truly loved.
For years after I shifted to the city she kept calling me, some answered, some left ringing next to my pillow.
She doesn't call anymore and I can't help but obsess over it.
I haven't been to the beach in a longtime and I feel like I am forgetting how it looks, or sounds.
I don't like that.
Early in 2016, my therapist tells my sister to hide all pills, toxic material and knives away from me.
A week after hiding everything, she forgets.
I have tried to start taking my medication several times but I always discontinue it,
my therapist thinks my attachment issues with people is showing up with the pills too.
I think I have two favorite colors; a fading green and light blue.
I remember I always wore black clothes when I was in school.
My father once screamed at me at the movie theater for wearing black again. I wonder why he did not say anything in the car.
The night after I overdosed on Lorazepam pills washed down with old coke, I cried in the morning because I was still here.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, is the name of a song that I really relate to;
A song I have heard enough to hate, but cannot find the stop-button to.
Making constant eye contact makes my cheeks and ears, very warm.
Most of my nightmares are about my father or my caretaker, both are not nice to me in my dreams.
I have a hard time remembering roads, conversations or what month or year it is.
Today I read my diary entry from two days ago.
"Today is the worst." it said.
Funny.

I saw god,
grab my mother by the hair
and slam her head repeatedly,
till there were blood stains on the wall.
I remember each crease on his face
from my usual nightmares,
from memories I can't recall.
I saw god,
kick her in the stomach
till she lied on the floor,
numb.
He slapped her face
and punched her in the back
and then some.
I have seen the dark hollows
beneath her eyes,
as she wept in the silence of night.
Here, it was always grey.
There was no hope.
There was no light.
The house,
it reeked of burnt dreams
and pillow stained with tears.
She stopped to laugh.
Then stopped to cry.
Her eyes were filled with fear.
I saw god,
he cracked those jokes
and laughed among the crowd.
I watched her rock herself to sleep.
Only to wake startled,
to this silence so loud.
She kissed my cheek
and let me know,
"Darling, you are my only smile."
I saw her dance,
to pattering rain
When she was sane for a while.
I saw god,
grab a knife
and run behind her, till she fell.
And time and time,
what upset my god?
I just couldn't tell.
Soon enough,
she broke down.
Her eyes were blank as slate.
I kissed her cheek
and combed her hair.
But I knew it was too late.
Her eyes were dry,
she took my hand.
"I love you." she said.
It's been so long
that she is gone.
The ring of her voice
is still in my head.
I saw god,
crack open a wine
and once again,
laughed among the crowd.
She is still here,
weeping in a corner.
Waking me up,
to this silence so loud.

He decided to drop the knife from his wrist

and in that moment,
he found himself
Heaven.

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.

I'm floating on clouds of fantasy
I'm drowning in thoughts so deep
I'm hardly there in reality
I hardly can sleep.

Your hand feels warm and it's nice, while floating in this cold, dark sky. The stars around us seem so big
and close to us,
but I haven't been able to touch one. Darling, how did we end up here; do you remember?
I can only recall cucumbers cut in circles and condensation on your glass of lemonade, from an afternoon.
We were moving
and dreaming in the world and our head was full of thought.
Now here in this starry nothingness, what do we think about?
How do you make a life, in complete stillness?
Maybe we could collect stars till the end of time
or become delicate ballet dancers.
We could spread the soft moon between Jupiter slices; make sandwiches for dinner.
Tears become diamonds here,
floating as if to a sweet nocturne on an invisible piano,
as I cry for all the people I have left behind.
All I wish for now
is to be remembered as love.
To have only been the sunlight flooding through open windows in dusty, abandoned houses;
I wish only to be remembered
as love.
I hope as we learn to live here we find happiness.
But I hope dear,
that even in our newfound joy
we never forget, the smell of a ripe orange, the taste of sour, summer breeze on a grassy hilltop or the colours of an ocean.
Okay,
let's go now,
sing songs we remember and pick a bright planet to call home!

Tomorrow I will go on like yesterday, you know ―
Same 'ol waking up, hot bath then smear peach-pink on each eyelid.
It's not an emergency,
but that Portuguese song about the serene farm
–a happy place―
reminds me of you.
Today I stirred my tea for longer,
lost in thought,
lost in repercussion,
lost.
It's not an emergency,
but I dreamt of us in a balcony at night;
sparkling eyes and wine.
I know I'm not extraordinary.
I was made to collect seashells in silence at windy seashores;
woman making boats of paper napkins at cafés and throwing it away.
It's not an emergency,
but were you looking for extraordinariness?
Did you find it in yourself?
A sad poem and glistening eyes in the dark ―
My last memory of you is from years ago.
We left this story where it was, maybe finished it,
I'm never sure.
It's not an emergency,
but I think we will meet again somewhere.
And midst champagne flutes and people's side profiles,
I will recognize you.

I have had a full life at 81 today,
of many a ceramic cup and coloured skies.
As the sun now warms my skin, and you
clinking cups and cutlery
make milky tea for two and toast ―
I know I have lived happy.
Few knew me and few I knew,
and I spent most of my time searching for happiness; never knowing, it was right there ―
moving furniture in our little new apartment,
while dust, like stars, danced in a room flooded in sunshine.
My legacy now is not much,
but the leaf I picked from my mother's garden years ago, all the wrinkled notebooks,
and broken cups
that I still,
love too much to leave behind.
As I look at you brew my favorite tea today,
I could cry.
Love I found,
in crossing the street with you; in worn-out clothes, toothpaste kisses;
Love has been the smell of the side of your neck; our reckless decisions, loud laughter on quiet midnights; it's been, eating Ramen for dinner when we were broke.
Love,
Has been your hands.
Here, close to the end,
I realize I have never
wished so much
For an afterlife, before.
Here at 81 this morning,
as you kiss my cheek and call me for breakfast,
I know I have had a full life
of magnificent ordinariness,
and I can't believe I get to be here,
for another cup of milky tea and toast,
With you.

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.

if you look
at the
scatter
of stars
in the sky
enough; new
constellations
begin to,
slowly,
materialize.
orion's belt
is suddenly
a man in a
postal hat
buying
croissants
at a bakery;
aquila is
string-lights
on a balcony.
the morning
sun pours in
as you sit,
quietly, at
the table —
warm
matzah,
too fragile
for butter;
words in
your brain
— a tiny
car on the
windiest day.
if you look
at decades-
old photographs
enough; they
start to
morph into
monsters
bigger than
the whole
of you. if
you look at
the monsters
enough; you
are left
with love.
the driveway
is covered
in snow; the
man is wearing
flip-flops at
the park;
the lilacs
are beginning
to grow; the
sunlight in
the afternoon
is turning
the grass
ochre-brown.
you're at
the table;
flatbread
and
depression.
i take you,
by the hand,
to the
smallest
corner of
this house.
stop. look.
if you lay
here,
with me,
and look
at the ceiling
enough; the
paint starts
to become a
night sky,
and there are
constellations.

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 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."

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.

july was
a long
time ago.
i'm still
almost
asleep
here
underneath
this tree;
surrounded
by unknown
wildflowers
-- yellow, blue
some purple.
the insects,
come alive,
on wood
and grass
have started
to sing;
the rosy
evening sky
is mixing
with a soft
golden sun.
eyes shut,
i can hear
the children
playing at
a distance.
giggles; the
bark of a
big dog
with sweet
eyes. the
little girl
has peach
ribbons in
her hair. of
course, this
i imagine
lying here.
strands of
my wild hair
are swaying
with the
breeze;
bare toes
and thighs
and skirt
covered in
damp earth.
as the
clementines
from the
clementine
tree start
to fall, i turn
to lay on
my back.
watching,
with my
eyes closed,
the stars
slowly
appear.
lying
alone
here,
in this
meadow,
i can feel
the months
go by --
the insects
dying and
being born
again;
summer air
becoming
colder
against my
bare legs.

against
the closed
window; on
the coffee
table —
steam from
the two cups
is the only
significant
movement
in this room.
then,
the rising
and falling
of your chest
next to me.
how and when
am i making
this life?
is this it?
how and when
can i give
you love?
is this it?
daylight has
gone and
come again;
the chinese
silver grass
has survived
the snow.
in new day,
we have
made new
home on a
porch; on a
balcony; on
an old second-
hand sofa;
dusted and
loved again.
crawled under
a white table,
you have tried
to fold yourself
into nothing —
"you couldn't
stay small if
you tried"
how and when
are you making
this life?
is this it?
the maple tree,
autumn-colour
trousers,
soaring choir,
chocolate
pecans,
a flask
found;
a life lost,
cornfields,
sirens,
a wooden
cigar box,
roads and
stories that
lead to places
unnamed and
unknown
are all in
an endless
loop on this
conveyor belt.
we are here;
waiting for
the end of
this day.
beginning
of this
morning;
you will
wake up
any
moment
now.
how and when
can you give
me love?
when you
ask me to
hold you,
i hold myself.
this is it.

can we
sit on the
concrete
pathway
next to
the garden,
with our
warm
coffee
cups?
i want
to take
photographs
of you
in this
green shirt,
in this
morning
light.

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.

you want
the sofa
with nine
lives --
made in a
warehouse,
carried into
a bright
room, then
a judge's
office, then
an apartment;
under the
taking off
and
putting on
of clothes.
i want to
paint the
cabinets
white.
every
morning
— naked,
when you
start to put
a shirt on,
i want to
bring you
back in bed;
tell you how
i have never
seen anything
as beautiful
as you.
you want to
tame your
wild hair
in the shower.
i want a
second cup
of coffee in
the evening.
you want
pickles on
your sandwich.
softly,
as the day
becomes
blue, rosé,
then burnt-
orange —
the lights
come on.
i open and
close the
refrigerator;
you put
music on.
somewhere,
in the middle,
i want
you
just
how
you want
me.
the
delicious
smell of
cooking
garlic; a
familiar
song.
you want
me
just
how
i want
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.

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 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.

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.

"i have
no socks"
you say;
slightly
frustrated
in the
morning.
i watch
you —
splendid
human-dust
float about
our little
home.
in worldly
commotion
about making
the most
of this life,
i wonder
how much
more it
takes to
make the
most? if
there was
such a
thing, would
it certainly
not be
this?
here?
tea
poured
from a
saucepan
into a flask.
driving far
in the night
to watch
meteors fall
or pick up
mid-week
groceries.
could 'most'
be in a state
of mind that
makes for a
lovely, long
sleep?
coffee cups
washed and
dried; walking
along a market
making songs
out of words
at random.
shoots
becoming
leaves on
a new plant.
arms and
legs?
warm
water?
clementines?
sunlight?
this?
here?
big sigh.
you stop
in the
middle
of the
room.
look
at me.
all the
socks
are in
the left
drawer.

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.

Feet interlocked under the table
elbows and coffee cups on it —
You're losing limbs now.
Yesterday when I walked home
in the chatter of drunk men,
sandals rubbing across gravel
and music
from a ringing cellphone
or the television from an old restaurant,
I was becoming someone else.
Catapulted words and trees that never forget —
You're only half a torso and a face,
maybe missing an ear.
Eight hundred miles then a thousand and eight hundred,
I still walk the same walk
and say those same things.
Round and round and round,
and you're just two eyes and a sweet smell.
I'm smiling wide across a table
and the sky is swirling.
The days last longer now,
and no one knows me.
Dessert, dancing and starry eyes —
You're nothing now.

a ceramic
coffee cup,
old percolator,
your wrists.

clink clink —

the stirring
of sugar.

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.

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.

I'm lying next to you,
knowing daylight will soon
slowly fill this room and
I will see you;
You will see me.
Here at twenty one
on a low mattress in a small living room somewhere,
we are falling asleep together.
Now at forty-seven,
while it's still
dark in the morning,
I still
feel the same.
Maybe some things always live,
like the man in Paris who always wore his hat or
that balcony with the light always, inexplicably on
or two people who kept seeing each other throughout their lives
in in-between's.
Years of "Goodbye, darling" and ending up where we started,
is an odd story.
Cold December at sixty-one,
maybe we will laugh about it with tea and something to eat
but now,
look ―
the room around us is painted in morning light and I see you.
Do you see
me?

in about
ten years
we will sit
at a very
familiar
coffeeshop,
and get
the same
coffee and
bacon-egg
things, for
the eleven-
hundredth
time.

in a
moment,
four or five
months ago,
we will have
sat in the car
and decided
to make a
life together.

seven odd years
from now,
we will find
ourselves
in front of
a window,
as it rained
outside your
parents' home.

a year or two
in the past,
we will have
crossed paths
without even
noticing.

in many an
uncountable
week; my
bare thighs
pressed
against
yours — we
will slowly
fall into
making love,
first thing
in the
morning.

last september
you will have
gone into a
cornfield and
told me that
i was the one.

fifty-three
minutes
from now
you will have
had your lunch
and kissed
me again.

several years
ago, we will
have gone
to bed in
different
worlds,
without
knowing
each other.

somewhere
in the exact
middle,
we
will have
unknowingly
imagined
and prayed
just for this.

Maybe we imagined magic
where it wasn't there.
Looking back at those places we went to,
it's more ordinary than I remember it.
I wonder ―
Doesn't morning-light make everything beautiful?
then why do the roads look empty?
The red booth, faded?
Why is the terrace bland
with puddles of rain?
There's a chance I will never see you again,
and we will go on remembering this
as we remember it.
The grainy streetlight,
silhouette-trees, look in our eyes ―
Maybe we imagined magic
where it wasn't there.
But maybe there was magic
in the attempt,
all along.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

soft daylight.
behind my
eyelids it's
pink, and
white, yellow
sparkles;
maybe
lights
coming on
and off,
over
and
over
again.
a small
abstract
world.
eyes
closed.
i'm here.

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.

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?

almost always
sitting, we
hunched over
the table and
made paper
boats,
made cake
and milk tea,
made slow
dances
out of
matchsticks
on cardboard
dance floors,
made dusty-star
constellations.
moving upwards
now, i have
walked past it.
a small
and dusty,
wooden
thing. holding
nothing but
imaginary
old paper,
stained cups
and cardboard.
as i move
onwards
we are slowly
disappearing
into thin air.
one step;
the last of our
laughter is gone.
another step;
your hair has
escaped from
between
my fingers
and lost colour
and shape.
our desks are gone.
the sink, the stars
the spotted cat
holding its breath,
watching the bird in
our kitchen garden
— dissolved.
up,
up,
up,
in the
vastness
of the view
from up here,
i see
emptiness.
quiet,
whistling
wind.
breath.
bird.
trees.
oh.
th­ank
goodness.

i tried
my best
to love
you and
ask for
nothing
in return.
the pots
and pans
in the
kitchen
remained
unmoved.
morning
tea; never
made.
the plants
were slowly
dying.