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?

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.

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

you say it
another
time in
the kitchen;
then
i say it
with coffee
in the evening.
we sit,
quietly,
together
at the end
of day —
maybe you
watch a film;
my feet
at your
lap; i open
an old book
... and there
it is again.

Dear mister ‘I-am-judging-you-for-the-type-of-tea-you-drink’,
I like you.
Maybe you would be comfortable if I didn’t say that I like you, or mention your discrimination for tea or was not the girl who wrote you a poem
But here I am, you. Here I am being the most vulnerable that I can be today.
I realized it last year on another rainy day in June, that I am the most vulnerable when I write poetry.
It was an evening when I sat near a window that sprayed rain water over my face while I wrote
A poem about the coffee I spilled on my bed that morning. Who knew, a mere coffee stain would take me back to war and pencil sharpeners from eighth grade and the kid who sold me two ballpoint pens for ten bucks at a traffic signal?
It would probably make you uncomfortable if I tell you that I recognize the shape of your hands better than mine but here I am, telling you just that.
Dear you,
Today on this rainy 12:42 am, I want you to know that I like how you make smiles without noses.
I like how the scent of your skin reminds me of cold blankets on a rainy night or how the shower smells of body-wash, long after I’m done.
Will you go away, if I tell you
that I want more of you than half-hearted ‘I need you’s and warm, replaceable hugs?
Will you stay, if I say,
that I see dawns with you at seashores and photographs of laughter and cups of tea?
That than searching crowds for perfect misfits- I’d rather make home out of my shaky arms, where I could draw portraits out of charcoal and you could make art of what we have.
Darling, I like you but let’s for now pretend that I don’t.
Let’s pretend I am in it for the temporary thrill and as soon as you leave,
I forget you.
That maybe I have a couple others, who make my heart happy when you are not around,
And you are not more to me than a friendly hookup.
Are you comfortable now?

sweet sombre
this morning
will bring things.
quiet movements
of the universe
mysteriously
spinning around
your significantly
insignificant life
will take care
of you, in silence.

the coral world
of mars will
continue to
float away
in a sea of
questions.
softly
carrying
water and
breath in
its heavy air;
leaving traces
of eyes
and rivers
lost in time.
they say
there was
home here
billions of
years ago.

billions and
billions and
billions of years.
before this.
before me.
before you.

yet,
here
is this
morning.
a cup
of tea.
this day will
bring things.
movements
of a quiet
universe. a
coral world;
a lonely
home,
somewhere.

you're going to
accidentally switch
our socks —
wear my navy blues
instead of your black ones.
across blue, white
and warm wooden tables
at restaurants,
we will make
inside jokes
for a lifetime.
in one of our summers
you will get yourself
many linen shirts
and i am
going to be
pleasantly
surprised.
didn't think
you could look
even more
breathtaking.
there will be succulents,
coffee cups on the floor,
and some jobs
that we will complain about.
writer's blocks,
a few mid-life crises
and arguments about
what we need from life.
there will be a lot of life.
moments of
"i can't believe how happy
i am"
times,
staying home
eating fancy ramen
and listening to
Take On Me
over again,
and loving
every bit.
and across tables,
midst writer's block,
inside jokes
and coffee,
i'm going to
fall in love
with you
a little bit.
someday,
years later
you're going to
accidentally switch
our socks
again —
navy blues to black.
and we'd
never know.

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.

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.

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.

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.

a ceramic
coffee cup,
old percolator,
your wrists.

clink clink —

the stirring
of sugar.

i have
overslept;
daylight
pouring
through
the sheer
curtains
in our room.
"if you're
awake —
i'm
bringing us
croissants
from the
bakery!"
warm toes
on cold floors;
a shirt —
yours
or mine.
sweet
tinkling
of the
wind chimes
outside;
the dull
sounds of
a possible
lawnmower
somewhere.
walking
to the
kitchen;
the apartment
is empty,
except —
our dog
is fed,
two cups
-- clean
and waiting
on the counter;
music
softly playing
on the radio;
the
gurgle
of the
coffee
machine
— a knock
on the door —
croissants
are here,
and you.
oh,
you.

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.

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

I'm lying next to him,
Midst sweat soaked sheets and heavy breaths.
My small room painted in the last shade of an evening
and his perfume.
There is more to this man than his honey glazed skin or the white shirt that he had slid off of his shoulders.
Secrets in the shape of his hands and the roughness of his palms against my fingertips.
With his half hearted smiles, his melancholy he hides at the seams of the curve of his lips.
There is more to this man,
Than how he lowers his voice when he walks around, talking on the phone.
Something about his bonfire eyes and the sweet disguise of an ocean of lonliness.
He is not like sunday morning, deep breaths in the shower or anything that says— home.
He is instead,
Like bitter coffee, or like thunderstorm keeping you awake at night.
What is it about his tireless stares, his mysterious eyes or the lies that I don't understand?
Lying next to him,
Midst sweat soaked sheets and lazy nudges
I can't help but wonder—
There is more to this man.

i wanted to
tell you
everything.
i wanted to
write to you
about my
heart; its
breaking,
hold you
and talk
about
trauma
and cry
and sink
and shrink
and expand.
grieve.
but
for now
here's
something:
when i
wasn't
looking,
the day
went by
beautifully,
today.
the skies
turned pink
in the evening,
as it does.
the air
became
cool
and
quiet.
we made
eggs and
vegetables.
i laughed
many times,
and there
was music.

Home,
I often wonder
Where is.
For I found it
Often everywhere,
And nowhere at all.
Under a big slide in the evening
When I was little,
With pebbles and dust
Home, was easy to make.
I found it in teacups, in long drives
Sitting right behind the driver to avoid eye contact and
Hot showers before dinner to skip time.
"Why are seas so loud and so quiet at the same time?"
I'd often think and make home out of the endless sand at the beach.
You didn't ask me why I was quiet or shy
When I met you.
Maybe you understood my awkwardness, somehow.
But it's nice to drink tea quietly
Even with people around,
And that felt like home.
My apartment is walls but
I have corners I call home.
I often wonder,
How lonely I'd be without pebbles, art, hot showers and the loud rumbles of the quiet sea.
Or just a while in the morning light with you and black tea,
At home.

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?

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.

poetry,
on a
strange
day,
is in swirls
through time
in a rainy sky.
it's six am
somewhere,
while it's twelve
in the afternoon
somewhere else.
here
it's just
today.
the knock
of the bottom
of our
cups
put on the
top of the table;
the swish,
swoosh,
******
of the outside
when a visitor
opens the door.
i am afraid
i will forget
my words,
and that you
will ask me
of the world
and find that i
know nothing.
but you talk
about oranges.
piquant, ...sweet,
and simple — i
find it easy
to talk about
oranges.
almost
comforting
to imagine it
in tea and made
into jam, and had
for breakfast.
sounds of cutlery
and steam from
the coffee machine;
the smell of
winter air.
this is not
a big moment —
big moments
scare me.
this is
inconspicuous.
you are
shy, and
i am unpredictable.
and you have
brought me
wildflowers.
inside,
it's still today;
outside
... i'm not sure.
look —
there is a moon
in the morning,
and there
is poetry
in the sky.
where do we
go from here?

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

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.

i bring
my blue
childhood
to this
table;
you bring
all of
the pink
hurt that
you have
collected
in jars,
from
trying
to love
over
the years.
we sit here
together
for hours,
summers,
autumns,
winters,
and strive
to make
our
home
less
and
less
purple.

I first met you at a tiny cafe that served awful coffee but was comfortable to me. Something about the walls in that place, something about the rough texture that I really liked. Often when I sat there alone, I would run my fingers along the uneven, grainy lines on the wall and it would feel pleasant.

You wanted to meet in the afternoon, which was strange to me because most men would conveniently want to meet for dinner and drinks. I usually have it all planned out, almost like a ritual. I ask the person to meet at this particular bar that I am familiar with and I always get there before they do. I order myself a whiskey-soda so that I am tipsy enough to bare sharing conversation with a complete stranger. When they finally arrive, I greet them with a big smile and a compliment. "You look great!" I'd say. They would be flattered and get comfortable. The date usually ends up with me sleeping with them and never calling them again. Sometimes, I do call but only to sleep with them again. Nothing more, nothing less.

So when you wanted to meet in the afternoon at a coffee shop, it threw me off guard. I was an anxious mess when I got there also because you had reached the café before I did. I do not remember most of our conversation that day because I was having an anxiety overdose through out our date but I do remember, that you were wearing a sky blue shirt because I had told you about my obsession with all the shades of blue. I remember talking about how bad the coffee was, making paper boats out of tissues and prolonged eye contact that made me more anxious and soothed me at the same time.

You were leaving the city for a couple months on the day after the day we met, so we decided to meet again the next day for a movie. It was a wonderful movie but the lounge chairs were too big and it felt like we were sitting so far apart. Every now and then, I would try to look at you from the corner of my eye and I'd laugh too when I would hear you laugh. I usually get dizzy when I stand after I have sat down for more than an hour, so I held onto your arm to prevent myself from falling when we were getting out of the movie theater. I took you to the bar I really liked and I had a couple of ***** drinks and you had a beer. I was tipsy soon and the candle at our table looked hazy, among other things.

We left the bar, swaying and laughing. "I don't want to go home yet." I told you. "Me neither." you said, looking into my eyes like you really meant it. I suggested we go to the beach. We did. I remember the calming sound of the ocean and your voice... It was a beautiful melange. We walked along the shore, back and forth, talking. "I really like your hands." I thought and maybe even said aloud, as I traced your palms with my fingertips. We kissed that night and before you dropped me home, you promised to meet me in the morning, the next day before you left for the airport.

I had lit candles at my tiny apartment and organized my journals and canvas boards, to make it seem a little tidy. We sat on my couch and awkwardly smiled at each other at intervals while we talked about random things. I remember us holding hands and talking, looking into each other's eyes. We made beautiful, blurry, enchanting love that evening. The room was filled with the low evening light from my window and the sound of us breathing. I loved every facet of the time I spent with you.

While we lay on the narrow bed, when you were holding my hand that was on your chest just minutes before we got dressed again and you left. You asked me if I would wait for you and I pondered about it for a moment before asking you if you wanted me to wait for you...

I am glad both answers were, yes.

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

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.

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.

what happens when
you take a
photograph
of yourself —
you take a
photograph
of yourself.
you choose
where your
arms go,
what your
mouth does,
where your
humanness
resides.
you take a
photograph
of yourself
and the
world goes on.
limbs of trees
slightly bend
with the wind.
a black cardigan
lays still in a
pile of clothes.
butter,
effortlessly,
melts into
a sauce.
when you
take a
photograph
of yourself,
a photograph
becomes. lives.
then dies.
the world goes on.

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.

the night echoed
of the downpour,
and this morning
there are new leaves
on the geranium.
i don't have
lovely words
to write today,
but we have
warm coffee
with a little cream.
maybe the ordinariness
of now
is poetry enough —
the spoon
resting on the countertop,
the silver lining
of your back
against the sunlight
as your write
in your notebook.
something lovely
about the bowls
in the cabinet,
about the rosy vase
you brought,
the dandelions
i brought.
you speak,
words swirling
into the music;
you say
something simple.
something about
watering the plants,
or social media
or the laundry.
and that's it
for today.
no grand gestures.
no moving moments.
no big plans
about a brilliant future.
i have
no lovely words
to write.
yet
this
is poetry enough.

I broke up with him a while ago. I don't remember if it's been a few weeks, months or years. I just know that I have not talked to him in a long while and I do not want to; I do check his blog at times though, because I'd like to still know that he exists and that, he was real.

He posts jokes and short stories sometimes, about how his ex was all negative things. Maybe he is talking about me or maybe he is talking about — the women he has been with before me. It could be anyone because he is good with pointing out flaws; it's an art I'd say. Or maybe, it's in fashion to label ex's as their negatives... Maybe there is a sense of relief in that. I try to understand but I am not sure if I relate to it because I always find comfort, in the happy memories and in the good in people. I like to stubbornly cling to the sunshine.

When I think about the relationship and him — I accept that there were so many things that were not right, that hurt me. But that is not how I would want to remember him. The time with him had alternate shades of light and deep blue — facets that were so bright, that it would brighten up all my existence. A couple of days of waking up next to him were so sublime, I still think of it and smile. I loved the way he blinked, the way he childishly frowned and that one time that he read to me — one of my favorite authors. He was bright and imaginative. He found stories in all the ordinary occurings around him; he was a beautiful, storyteller. I found it adorable how particular he was about brushing twice, and how organized he kept everything that belonged to him.

He was endless in the way he existed in my life. And even though I was not a memory, happy enough to him— he'll always exist in the light and dark blue corners of my mind.

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?

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 think of her often but
I only sometimes let her know.
She colors her lips purple
and kisses cigarettes, and leaves
purple marks on her glasses.
I know she thinks of me,
At times.
Maybe when she has wiped her color
and she is holding a cup,
maybe she sees me
in the refection of herself
in clear tea.
And when it is late at night
and she has stepped out in cold,
to smoke her last cigarette
and I am asleep.
Possible, that she thinks of me
and I dream about,
only her.

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.

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.

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.

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.

let's make a house
of lamps and sheets
and our awkwardness
to spend an afternoon in.
the world —
a swirly mess
of dust and blue
can go on without us.
in orange-yellow light
i can see a life in your eyes
flickering like bonfire,
like an evening sun,
like hope.
heavy footsteps,
broken glass —
the flat around us
is of the monsters
that we have been running from.
but
here under sheets
we are home.
so we lie down
pretend we aren't afraid.
you play The Beatles —
Michelle, on a CD player
and i tell you about
a happy story from life.
something about sour candy
and a rainy day.
it's surprising how
comforting the ordinary is.
coming out
of small-talk
we talk about how
we hate it.
that old photo of you
standing next to your sister,
from when you were 5
is hilarious.
i can't believe
how uneven your
dad cut your hair.
older now,
we are still uneven
in other ways. other
good and bad ways.
"you know anxiety too?
oh, i know her. she's
lovely most of the time."
we talk about the smell
of fresh bread. soft,
cream coloured.
you need a new toothbrush.
i need new glasses.
there is still room to
discuss existentialism
in a universe of
combusting galaxies.
turning to me —
a part of your face
lit in the golden
lamplight,
you ask me
to be honest.
absolutely honest.
there is a tear
in the sheets,
and outside
it's getting louder.
you're waiting for
an answer.
i hesitate
as the monsters
find us —
"let yourself be
till you need to be."
a light goes out.
you're still smiling.

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.

As I ponder about today — the backdoor to a restaurant that played nostalgia in tune;
I wonder,
if the day was any more than her.
"This is the only happy-poem I wrote." She says. Coral.
Then goes on to string together blue melancholy.
So I wonder,
if lavender could be a person.
She smiles sangria-smiles; talks about vineyards, a parking lot and her people.
I am here
trying to learn her as if,
everything around her is scribble.
and I wonder,
"Do I understand?"
"Let me fix my face." She'd say grabbing her roses and apricots;
I don't understand.
I am here
painting her,
as her earrings dance with the tilt of her head;
the way she rises on toes reliving her poetry in a room full of eyes or
when she stops
to look at the ******* her jump-rope outside the car window,
as an evening fades away.
She smiles sangria-smiles; talks about vineyards, a parking lot, chai and her people...
A day has gone by
And I wonder,
If I know her yet.

I don't think you understand the person that I am. I don't think I have more energy to make this relationship more than it is because no matter what I want it to be, it is always going to stay how it really is. I do not feel angry at you right now, simply because I do not have the energy in me to feel anger. I just feel drained, that's all. At this point, I don't know what is the right thing to do. All I know is that this relationship is draining me more than it should. I am a paranoid person and that is the truth. Lying to me, so elaborately for whatever reason is not healthy for my mind. It also means, that I cannot trust you again, even if you say something as simple as "I had pasta for lunch, today." I just cannot. I had told you before about my paranoia (about cameras in my apartment, people watching through my window, doubting everything anyone ever says etc) but you still went ahead and lied to me. Specially, abandoning me when I needed someone the most. That means, I cannot depend on you again. I am scared to be alone, just like you are and everyone else is but I cannot give my hundred percent in a relationship that drains me this much. Again, I don't know what is the right thing to do so I am going to go with the flow and not get worked up about this. But I would like to say, that I do not look at us as a serious relationship anymore. I would be more comfortable if I were only dating you and not calling it a relationship. If that is okay with you, I would be okay with seeing you and giving a chance to adjust. Also, I would like my childhood photograph and the journal pages back; you can keep the letters.

Darling, I have been thinking of you
Lying sleepless in my warm bed,
Waiting for my sedative to
Cradle me to sleep.
I have been picturing you in a dark room,
Fast asleep next to your baby. And
The sight of your chest rising and falling
Is comforting to me.
You scare me, darling. I'm scared of the
decieve in your eyes, at times.
But there you are, right now
Your body sinking in your cold mattress
With your eyes closed and mouth half open, here, you are only a boy
Lost in this terrifying world. And
Here I am,
Traveling in my nocturnal state of mind,
To where I am most at peace.
And now, you are awake,
And I have fallen asleep.
Probably,
Forgotten each one of these words.

how am
i feeling?
i'm feeling
everything.
slowly and
quietly at
first, then
all at once.
loudly.
breathlessly.
falling from
the sky;
drumming
on my roof.