The strands of my hair mix well with the breeze
and here you are, right in front me.
And it's a typical evening at Danny's
of slow-dance romances and marijuana smokers.
I'm sitting here with you in the night that smells of whiskey
And I can't help but wonder,
why do some people only exist sometimes?
People,
like you.
Who appear in the cab, on the way home or
in front of me when when I am looking at my reflection on the floor.
Or people,
like Danny.
Who don't exist until I'm writing a poem.
I'm sitting here with you in the night that smells of whiskey
And I can't help but wonder,
why do some people only exist sometimes?

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

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 am sleepy today; walking to the kitchen in a haze;
soft, pink toes on a cold floor.
Turns out,
I don't mind 5am's of awake.
There are bigger things in life than refrigerators ―
crackling of a fresh newspaper from the living room; the empty green, park benches.
I am singing a song,
while I pour water in an ancient saucepan
and it smells like bonfire outside.
There are bigger things in life than coffee tables ―
making up constellations of flickering stars, perfect fallen leaves; someone that holds your face while they kiss you.
Warm hands from the stove now, I walk,
quickly to put them against your stubble
Listen ...the neighbour's dog is singing love songs,
And it smells like tea here.
There are bigger things in life than Ideal ―
your cold nose at my cheek, sweet biscuits for breakfast, remembering the words to an Italian song from years ago.
This cold morning of you and tea, in an empty house of dusty floors
I realize,
There are bigger things in life.

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.

It's hard to be meaningful
when your thoughts,
are contorted and destroyed.
Anything that I will ever be,
will be meaningless and flawed.
There will be passion,
there always is.
And there will be lies,
there always is.
Oh. and a universe of stars
in the palm of my hands.
I will hand you a piece of
my world, and move on.
Till I am left with no more.
I know,
it makes no sense.
It's hard to make sense,
when your thoughts
are lies and hollow.
Well, what can I say?
I will never make sense.

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.

the old summer houses
— home to me
lonely for you —
are waiting
in the snowstorm
for a cup of tea;
for imagination
of rehearsal goodbyes,
of floors, paintings, birthday
people, knees, drugstore biscuits
joy and geraniums!
but i stand frozen
in the afternoon rain.
would you go
play my part?

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.

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!

nap-hair,
toes,
nose,
thighs.
your
autumn-
rain scent
is pulling
me out
of my
slumber
and softly
putting
me back
to sleep.

a spoon
gently drags
across the
bottom of
a bowl. the
lovers laugh.
the servers
are leaning
against the
walls and
glass windows;
the water in
the aquarium
glistening
in sunlight.
afternoons
at the diner
are peculiar
and quiet.
visibly warm
— the air
outside.
inside —
condensation
on the table,
through
the cloth.
interesting
things don't
happen here;
just this
over again.
a man leans
back in his
chair and
scribbles
in his
notebook.
a waitress
twiddles
her thumbs.
i ask for
another cup
of coffee.

He got home around 8 pm and walked to the kitchen, almost mechanically. He put water to boil while he picked one of the two identical mugs kept in the cabinet. His eyes kept drifting as he made himself coffee and walked to the couch, forgetting the sugar as usual.

It had been two weeks since she killed herself and it still hadn't settled in his head. How can someone that you have known for more than a decade, just not exist anymore? He sipped from his cup and resisted the urge to spit out the coffee. He never drank coffee without sugar but today, he was too tired to get up again. "Maybe I don't deserve sugar in my coffee." he thought and took another sip. The curtains at the balcony danced slowly, to the grey evening breeze and he stared, unblinkingly. The curtains, almost a dreamlike hypnosis taking him back to memories. Memory, of their room at midnight and the black-blue bruises at her back. "I didn't mean to hurt you like this. I just... I am sorry." he had said. She was expressionless when he hugged her, as if she was dead already. He gasped as he looked away from the dancing curtains, breathing short breaths. It wasn't the first time that he was feeling guilty. He always felt sorry after every argument, every bruise and every time she screamed out of pain.

Before she died, she took the time to gather all the letters they had written to each other, old dried flowers, the dress she wore on their first date and all little memories that reminded of the happy times they spent together and arranged all of it on their bed. What did she mean by doing so? Maybe she wanted him to remember her by all the good memories or maybe, she wanted to taint those memories with what she was about to do so that no matter what he thinks of, he is always reminded of this.

He frantically got up and drained his coffee in the kitchen sink. The memories haunt him, even the good ones. It never was clear why she decided to **** herself and if it was because of him or not but either way, he was guilty.

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.

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.

Do you know what it is like
to sit in the darkness of a room
With only a shade of evening light
that is soon going to fade away...

It is soothing, the absence of light
and the finite minutes
of the piano playing on the radio

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.

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.

early dawn,
today,
there was a
chemical reaction
in the sky.
the stars dimmed
and swirled
around with the air,
and gravity,
and invisible
dispersed light;
instead of the sun,
it made a moon.
a morning moon
in a morning sky —
an extraordinary
detail on a
normal day,
when everyone
slept in a little
longer. and
the birds quietly
dusted the dew
off their wings.
i stood
at the balcony;
toothpaste breath,
achy bones;
in this little
otherworldly
mistake
of light,
wondering
if everything
is always a little
made-up.
if all truth i know
is a bit of a lie.
that this entire
reality
is actually
imagination.
wondering
if i should
wake someone up
to show them
this magic.
wondering
if this will
all go away
the moment
i choose to
tell somebody.

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.

They say, "She's so arrogant."
"I hate that girl." they say.
but they only see a quiet girl,
who hardly looks at them in the eye.
What they don't see,
is a wounded soul, drowning in the air
that she breathes.
And to drown in air, is the worst
because air is all I've got.
I heard her say, "She is weird."
"I need to stay away from her." she said.
But all she saw, was a loner with
dark eye liner around her eyes.
What she didn't see,
was that the eye liner is the closest
I felt to my authenticity.
That I am actually so paranoid that sometimes,
I wonder if I am lying to myself.
They say, "that girl is getting nowhere."
"She is ruining her life." they say.
They saw me cancel plans repeatedly
they saw me make excuses and lies.
What they couldn't see,
is my heavy heart and the overwhelming anxiety
and how scared I am of not dying
but living.

it's five
in the morning
and i'm at
a seashore.
the sky is
slowly
becoming pink
and i have
had tears of
happiness.
tears of
the last
glowing stars.
a small coffeeshop
run by an old woman
who loves hot mugs,
and her husband,
a florist who
brings flowers
for the cafe. —
i sit by a window;
the music is soft
and people are few.
the coffee here
reminds me of
a distant memory
i can't quite recall.
wet hair, white shirt,
eyes blushed with sleep —
i walk home
from here.
the street smells
of bread from a bakery,
tea from the cups
of an outdoor cafe,
and cigarette mixed
with last night's rain.
i stop at the
pâtisserie
to buy freshly
baked pastries
for two.
i'm home now
and the clothes
are already turning
in the washing machine.
there is your familiar
face that i love, and
there are warm kisses.
there is some tea,
and the little sounds
of a home that
harbours life.
we sleep together
in the middle of day;
our legs interlocked
and hearts beating.
it could be afternoon or
it could be eleven,
but i'm awake. and
you have made coffee
and put forks next to
the box of cakes.
there's a song in the
background, and we
are talking about
everything in the world.
my hair is dry now
and you're laughing
at something that i said.
the sunlight is
fading and
the twinkling lights
appear in the sky and
in our living room and
the balcony doors.
fresh vegetables and
leftovers in the refrigerator;
we make dinner together.
you do the dishes
while i bring out two
bowls for our dessert.
while you watch the
film, i sit next to you
and write about today.
maybe we will sleep soon,
or take a walk to the beach
or stay up all night
and make art and talk
and drink too much coffee.
maybe tomorrow
there will be work,
and offices
and paperwork
and bad weather
and writer's block
and an argument.
maybe the world
will crumble and
become dust
in the morning.
but today,
all my dreams
have come true.
and since ordinary
is so brilliant,
we can make
a perfect day
over and over again.

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.

this morning,
i've sat down
and tried to
recall memories.
memories
that i could
write about.
and nothing
significant
comes to
mind.
just
the same
childhood
television,
the feeling
of sand
between
my toes
at that
beach
i went to
a long time
ago.
years of
collecting
every letter
i've got,
then in
a moment
letting it
all go.
not
missing
the things
i thought
were important,
while i was
homeless.
kisses
on terraces.
a resort
we went
to a lot
on school
vacations.
central park.
a korean
restaurant
that i kept
going to
for the big,
floral coffee
mugs.
the consuming
thought of
wanting to
run away.
the happiness jar
full of folded
pieces of paper.
having tea
with a sweet man
after his meditation
in the morning
at my apartment.
having tea
with a warm girl
after her cigarette
in the morning
at my apartment.
a tray of
teacups
on an
airbnb
bed,
and friends
around it.
crying
in the shower.
hurting
my neck
from laughing
so much.
sitting
on the floor.
sitting
at a table
at sunset.
sitting
at a quiet
balcony
at dusk.
sitting
near a
sea
at dawn.
sitting
on the
steps
to a
kitchen
garden.
sitting
at an
empty
restaurant.
sitting,
scared
in silence
after loud
screaming.
sitting,
bored
at a
crowded
event
where
i couldn't
hear
myself.

nothing
significant.

nothing
significant
­comes to mind.

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.

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.

Love, you're lying awake at night
With your thoughts as tangled
As your curly hair
And your eyes, they are blinking away
In the darkness of today.
Love, you just don't say
How their stares drain you
Or how restless your heart is.
Instead, you
Paint that seamless smile
And blink away the night.
Love, you are magnificent
But do you realize?
That it is art, the way
You walk across a room,
Live in those long showers or
Lift your arms to tie your hair.
Times when you stare,
At ghosts from your memory
And nothingness.
You look like you belong
Anywhere but here.
Now, you are lying awake at night
Like an unmoving ocean
And I wish I could put you together
Like a jigsaw but for now
I'd rather wish for you,
Sleep.

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.

I do not feel free.
I do not feel free in these clothes;
In these interactions, media, the material under my feet on the carpet.
I do not feel free!
In my words, my voice;
In the way that we have become.
Another person is afraid to be called a Feminist and I wonder, what have be become?
Where are we?
What do we want?
Maybe it's sort of an existential crisis but I cannot make a way out of my chaos without writing it out.
Growing up those books, films manifested into dreams of climbing trees, making wings out of stretched arms and one day, saving the world.
Here I am today, in the backseat of a car, scared of the cab driver at midnight.
They say I am a useless, angry feminist.
I flinch at the word.
Maybe it is true but when I was five, making bouquets of wildflowers I was less angry, less feminist,
...less aware.
I could forget the bruises on my caretaker's face,
or the time my father barged into our room in the night and asked her
"Have you increased your prices or WHAT!?"
only because she refused to sleep with him that day.
It was easy to not wonder then, why she never spoke up or why she kept serving meal after meal after meal
to him when she was crying, sick or numb.
I was caught up with being bullied myself to think more about why that guy
was laughed at for being feminine.
Maybe today I am more scared than angry. Maybe scared is a more acceptable emotion to negotiate my right to equality.
I don't feel free.
What do I do when instead of arguing with a sexist commenter, I want to hug them and tell them
how much I want to cry,
how helpless I feel and how badly
I want this world to be a better place for each one of us?
I am reminded
of the couple of times that my caretaker brought home, baby birds
that fell from a tall tree near our house. Each time she made a home out of stacked twigs in a basket and fed them grains.
I was afraid to pet them but she would hold them close to her fearlessly.
Each time
the birds would die in a week's time.
I always thought the house was too physically, maybe emotionally cold for baby birds to survive.
All I want,
is a house warm enough for baby birds to survive.
Is it too much to ask for?

Oh, my blury lighthouse at dawn
don't shine on my bed when I am sleeping
I have almost drowned in this room.
Recently when he said he was okay,
with having another women with us in bed.
This bed was a storm, my dear and I am never a boat goodenough.
I had her hair on my face and the sheet did not smell like him and me.
I almost drowned in the moment he closed his eyes and she put her hand on my breast.
The air was now tears and sea water and her fingertips and her ankle
and his wrist and
everything I managed to see,
blinking, like photographs.
I almost drowned and I didn't want to be at sea,
or be a boat.
Oh, my blury lighthouse at dawn
don't shine on my bed when I am sleeping.
I am safe here and it's dry
but I have already drowned in my head.

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.

i
miss
you.

i
miss
you.

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.

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

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

Running across a street to an unfamiliar café to meet a stranger is not ideal for a seashell-person, but still, there's something comforting about wearing a bright, floral skirt on a rainy day.

The sweet rattle of teacups; the crisp tear of our sachets of brown sugar and here we were, meeting for the first time. You smelled of a favorite quilt on winter's dawn and I was sleep deprived — Ideal. Slowly drawing circles with a spoon I wondered if I have met you before maybe somewhere, sometime in my head. You felt so familiar, as if we've laid on wet grass on a starry night before, or picked wildflowers on an orange evening in seventh grade. It's funny how much you have to say, about everything; how you look away then look at me. At times, in the dull of our voices, I watched the motion of your wrist as you poured tea from the *** — an imperceptible detail; it's sweet.

Sitting on a bench, at your favorite place of colourful, scribble-people was nice too. You thought I was indecisive because I was a Gemini; I couldn't decide how I felt about that. Do you remember if that little bookshop was decorated in string lights? In my imagination it was. Little, yellow lights and you. You were so vivid and happy, and so I don't understand why you were still painted in a shade of unspoken melancholy.

It's so strange how when we lay together; your arm under my neck, my legs across your hip — it fit. Sitting cross-legged, I wanted to remember you exactly in that afternoon light. The creases of your forehead; the crinkle on the side of your eyes when you smiled; just the way the light defined your ear ...like white pastel on a portrait.

When I sat alone in your room between a mango and a guava tree, I wrote about you. I wrote, about your breath on my neck when we made love, how in that moment my hands were your hands, your lips were my lips, my name was your name; it's beautiful to be that close to someone. I liked how your house smelled like an old bookstore — of unpolished wood. Stuck in a temporal limbo, I wrote about how you said you liked terraces; that your eyes were light brown. I scribbled something about a poet, a red tshirt and how close the trees are to the windows.

I then wrote about, when we were walking away from the little bookshop with the string lights and I said to you, "I am sad that this is coming to an end." And you asked, "who said this is the end?" I wrote about that, and other things.

"I disagree.
Writers who write for free are making it harder for us.
These companies have the money they say they don't have." She says —
Infuriated.
Slowly pulling myself away from fabricated corporeality,
I realize my tongue tastes of bitter beer.
Walking upstairs the other day
I caught my toe in my long checkered pajamas and tripped.
Graceless young lady who writes for free.
I chuckle.
"I asked them for what I deserve and they refused
so I left."
I hear her say and I'm thinking
about how sad I will be when Ruskin Bond dies.
A signed book, an untouched hello is a recipe for disappointment,
so I would never meet the man.
He once wrote,
about the rain drumming on
his corrugated tin roof.
How it helped him lie awake
and at the same time,
didn't keep him from sleeping.
I fall in love at the thought.
"And they wouldn't hire writers
because people waste their time and write for these companies
for free!'
Her voice brings me back to this restaurant
and the cold
condensation on the table.
Her boyfriend calls, and I want to go home.
How long have I been here?

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.

What is it about cab rides,
that make me feel so happy?
Just an hour drive, of uninterrupted playing
of my playlist.
Something about, passing everything by.
There is a comfortable place,
in the way between.
Something soothing,
about 'not there 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.

Ciao, my beautiful Carlotta.
You are so magnificent,
it makes me cry.
Your trembling lips,
like the waves of the ocean.
A purple sun,
setting in your eyes.
Oh, my only star in the sky,
I think I might be in love
with your cropped back hair
and the scent of your skin,
mixed with cigarette.
Come here, sweet Carlotta.
I want to paint every inch of
that honey glazed skin.
I'd drink you up like *****
and maybe won't feel so hollow within.
Would you stay here for a while?
We are running out of time.
Ciao, my beautiful Carlotta.
You're so unforgettable,
it makes me cry.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

you let it rain.

I woke up startled today
and yesterday,
I spilt coffee on my coverlet.
Two week old scribble,
still on my skin.
I forget. Oh, I forget.
The shade of black
on my TV screen.
I've been staring at it,
for hours.
Twenty four missed calls
and broken hearts.
Oh, I'm such a coward.
I woke up startled today.
I'm bathing in a pool
of meaningless tears.
I'm lying on the floor.
I don't want to be here.
I don't want to be here.
I'm laughing so hard,
I want to etch myself
with knifes.
Happiness. Happiness.
In this beautiful life.
I woke up startled today.
Outside it's grey and rain.
I guess, I'll sleep some more,
on my coffee stain.

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.

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.

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.

Beautiful white gown
and her eyes,
they shone like diamonds.
Light blue crystals in her hair.
So beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.
Her skin as dark as copper
luminating blood,
trickling down her lips.
Subtle glorious marks on her arms
from the tied rope,
keeping her to the chair.
Oh, how beautiful
the glittering tears on her cheeks
and reflecting in her eyes,
the light blue crystals in her hair.
I'm so intoxicated
by that perfume,
on the hollow of her neck
and collar bone.
I let her know,
"I remember this fragrance.
from your showers at dawn."
The solace I find,
in the echoes of her scream.
As I draw my knife,
"Shhh, baby it's just a tool."
Her beautiful white gown,
now a vibrant shade of red.
So beautiful.
Oh, so beautiful.