simple luxuries
the swirly scent
of black tea
with ginger
on the stove,
the artful
movement
of you sitting
on the floor
and weaving
plain things
into magical
things. more
than enough
the frozen
milk with
sugar on
summer
afternoons,
the softness
of your fingers
through my
hair on
nights i
couldn't
sleep.
sweet comfort
the embroidered
napkins, the
coriander in
things, the
smell of
incense and
everything that
you prayed for.
grand treasure
teaching you
to spell our
names on
old notebooks,
asking you
for different
kisses all day,
the times
we were
distracted
enough to
laugh.
simple luxuries
to wake up
and find you,
sit on the
sofa with the
television on
hearing stories
from your
childhood.
oh, such
sweet comfort
the black
ginger tea.
more than
enough
to have
had you.

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.

clothes
unpacked
all over the
hotel room;
we sit at the
coffee-table
chairs in early
morning, and
quietly reconsider
our plans to go
for that walk.
coffee *** on
the quiet table;
ceramic cup
in my hands. i
look to see if
i can tell what
you really want.
you talk about
the views from
that place we
planned to go to.
i ask if you
are sleepy.
you — dressed,
with shoes
and all
look at me —
dressed in
a blanket.
wavy steam
from the
coffee ***,
soft buzz
of the air-
conditioning,
downstairs
your car in
lamplight.

I'm letting go of him today.
I untangle my fingers from his hair
and lean back till I don't feel his eyelashes on my skin
I stay on these empty sheets, bare
dig him up till I feel hollow within.
I inch away enough to
free my lower lip from his subtle bite
try not to feel his warm breath on my neck
the sweet smell of downpour to get me through the night.
It feels like this moment is passing so slow
but it is only occurring from present to past
The tips of my hair hardly touching his chest
Honey, we can't make this moment last.

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

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

I dreamt last night,
of Carlotta.
That beautiful stranger
I'll never forget.
I traced kisses all along
her neck and shoulders,
and of course,
she smoked her cigarette.
I stared deep into
the still sea in her eyes
And as soon as my mouth
found her lower lip,
She closed her eyes and cried.
My hair let loose on,
either side of her face.
Like heavy curtains
keeping her from the grey.
The intoxicating taste
of her salty skin.
My only breath, she takes away.
I dreamt again,
of Carlotta.
That beautiful stranger
I'll never forget.
And did I mention, she loved another?
I fell in love with someone,
I never met.

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."

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

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.

the wild waters
of this ocean
are taking me
everywhere;
but there's an
agreement to
be on the shore
an agreement to
be on the shore
an agreement
to be on
the shore
again.

He decided to drop the knife from his wrist

and in that moment,
he found himself
Heaven.

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

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

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

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

"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.

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

a man is making music; playing a wooden piano and writing a song from the stories in his head. a woman has left away the dust on her black shoes, in a previous rain's puddle on the street. you're alone in your apartment. you have made another coffee, read a poem and sang to yourself in the evening. somewhere there has been an argument between lovers. two lovely people trying to untangle themselves out of a word-chaos, and just be held a little longer. loved a little more. the blue in the skies have gone and come again. and as we sit here in our joy and pain and relief and melancholy and warmth and heartbrokenness — a wet plate in the kitchen has slowly dried. a dog has found a warm sun spot; circled around it and settled for an afternoon nap. a ripple in a pond has dissolved into stillness, after the children ran out of pebbles and left the park. as we grieve and celebrate — the world has gone on breathing. moving and changing and creating life. no matter how we see it in the moment, the world is still gorgeously magical. it has always been. it will always be.

early-morning
apartment that smells
of fresh laundry.
not night yet,
not day anymore —
an outdoor coffeeshop
with a string-light roof.
making buttered
grilled toast
and eggs with cheese,
garlic and parsley
on a rainy mid-day.
wet, salty hair
from the seashore,
fresh clothes,
reggae music —
in candle light,
for dinner with friends.
passing by
a bakery smelling of
freshly baked
bread and cookies,
and deciding to
get some.
sitting under lamplight
in a living room,
listening to a
magnificent song
just discovered.
wandering in a
secondhand furniture
shop — finding
the perfect white, wooden
table with three legs
pinned on a vision board.
a long, warm shower
on a very cold day.
leftovers from
the most delicious dinner,
for today.
lighting a vanilla
scented candle
in a clean, organized
peaceful home.
homemade cake with tea.
walking along
an uphill market —
dumpling shops,
man with the local spices,
earrings, singing bowls.
petrichor.

things to imagine
when lying in bed, anxious.

it's cold on this terrace;
they're passing around a joint,
and i'm stunned at how
all the city lights
could pass for stars.
i don't remember the last time i saw you, but
i remember we don't see each other anymore.
maybe sometimes
reasons come later,
and feelings come first.
my friend made me chai
with sweet, powdered milk yesterday
and it tasted like a memory we share.
it was sweet.
i feel very happy here among people
and starry buildings;
i don't remember the last time i was on a terrace
so high,
or much of anything at all,
but regardless
i feel very happy here
and you're free to join me.

Two of my closest friends in this world are — a cooing, white-grey pigeon that always sat outside my bathroom window, who I started out being scared of but eventually made friends with and — the rough textured, brown brick wall that has comforted and kept me company many a time, at a cafe that I frequent to.

My world is made up of not only people but coral evening skies, a cup in my kitchen rack that says "Good things are going to happen.", the shy lizard that I sometimes come across, cold-pressed mango juice and many little things that, I have started to grow fond of in my existence.

In the previous year I have had a million laughs, good amount of cry, came to terms with my mental illnesses, met a bunch of interesting people and also made some glorious mistakes. It's been a great time!

I am just utterly in love with this magnificent world and this magically, abstract life that I have. Reaching 20 years is not very different than reaching 19 or 18 — just more memories (good ones and the ones that make you cringe), couple of accidentally broken mugs and more friendly pigeons!

I am grateful and excited to spend more time discovering little bits of this world and myself, and to have more hours in this universe of sparkle. Here is to the future sunrises, hugs, uncountable cups of tea, memorable conversations and bright, uncontainable gladness!

So instead of searching for the better self, the greener grass or the balance — let's for once, embrace the glorious mess that we are. Maybe then we would find that, all this time that you were looking for happiness — happiness was looking for you.

you carry
flecks of
blue-green
paint on
your hands
and nails
to your
table-y
day job
everyday.

— my
to-do list,
today,
asked me
to write
a poem.
and i
think
there is
infinite
poetry
in that.

sat in an
empty ***
of dry soil,
the wildflowers
have been
singing to me
all afternoon.
warm cups
of coffee
were made
again and
again in
this home
and we
laughed
at words
spoken in
silly ways.
quietly, as
the forks
napped with
the spoons,
the grey-blue
sky burst
into a deep
magenta.
a poem
was made,
and the
neighbour's
dog was
comforted
by a
familiar
face.
as the
butter
slowly,
deliciously
melted in
the pan
in our
small
kitchen,
a very
ordinary
life
went on
to bring
brilliant
joy.
the
wildflowers
sang;
we had
coffee
again.

I like it here in your point of view.
My eyes are strained and
it smells like cigarette and rose in here.
Early morning,
waving for a cab
my skin is lit in streetlights.
Never sure what you find beautiful;
never know what you want.
Writer buying coffee at dawn;
her hair is a chaos in the air.
It's so cold;
her nose is the coldest —
That's all I am at the moment.
Not sad.
Not particularly happy.
"Wonder what it's like to date you."
"What did you imagine?"
Tucking my hair behind my ear,
I feel anxiety swirling in my stomach.
Smiles.
White noise.
You're blinking, looking away
and at me.
Why do everything I write
sound like a lovesong?
Do you like it here in my point of view?

"I love you." he said and kissed me on the sides.

I looked at myself in the mirror and cried.

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

today
we are
opening
the new
coffee.
it's a rainy
morning,
our cat
is fed,
and you
have put
two chairs
out for us
to sit —
our legs
crossed,
with our
hot cups
of coffee.
in the
afternoon
we will go
and bring
some
oranges
home
from
the tree.
our little
nasturtiums
and pink
roses have
bloomed;
some of
them will
live in the
vase on
the table.
the mosquitoes
were driving
us crazy
last night.
i think
we should
get more
repellents.
you're making
a stew for
lunch today,
and i will
make
something
sweet
with the
frozen
blueberries
from last
winter.
the cups
are almost
empty. but
we will
sit here
a little
longer
watching
the cat nap,
the drizzle
fill up the
flowerpots,
clementines
drop from
our tree.

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.

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

still unfamiliar.

a rainwater memory
of fresh trees
smelling green,
and dreaming to songs
under a pastel sun.
impatient
and always in mood
for a hot cup
of anything;
i never remember
birthdays
or valentines.
passionate and mad,
then utterly over it —
i never know to define
love.
making paper boats
in puddles,
cross-legged
on a floor
and on restaurant tables,
i have made
a rosy world.
for worse
or for better,
never been heartbroken enough
or for too long —
life has been sweet to me.
wishing
on eyelashes,
and starry skies
i have made
a rosy world
of rainwater
and songs.
here,
is a cornucopia
of pink, inexplicable
goodness.
all things grey
come here
to become
new days,
new chances
and miracles.
never remember
birthdays,
or valentines
but i'm thinking of you
and wishing
you well.

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

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

Waving at you
I close the door
and it's as if
I've lived life twice.
'feel like I've shared this moment with you before.
Maybe I should tell you —
We kissed in the elevator once
and sat in the balcony with old wine in our rented apartment;
you asked me to marry you.
I'm never sure what I said.
Time has been swirly lately —
losing its shape.
I'm giving up
as I make smiles on the car window at dawn.
You have laughed 2468 times,
and fallen in love twice
since I melted
into a pastel drawing.
I think we lived for a longtime,
and made photographs of our
limbs, lunches, birthdays,
paints and wrinkles.
You didn't like sushi and I liked it very much and
we argued a few times.
I apologise,
I've lived life twice.
And you are moving on in this one.
No elevator, balcony, wine.
No photographs, birthdays, wrinkles.
Waving at you
I close the door.

The 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.

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

I don't live here
Or even close by.
I'd tell you where I live
but I wouldn't want to lie;
you won't like it a bit.
I live in the casted shadows
of trees sprouting life.
Hiding away from
the unbearable ray of light,
that you call,
Hope.
I float as disguised dust
in the air that doesn't get a chance in the sunlight.
I live in ordinary coincidences
and sunken tears on pillow cases.
I'm in the coffee stains,
the discouraging rains
and naive romances.
I live in the kind people with tragic endings,
the whispers on nostalgic lanes
and lonesome dances.
Now, I've told you where I live,
in the realities of the miracles you live by
and in all honesty, it doesn't feel like home.
I wouldn't want to lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a porch
on a
seashore;
a small
room with
a big window.
i love
you in
this shirt.
i love
you here
in the
chaos
of my
arms
and your
arms. my
legs and
your legs.
outside
the choir
is getting
loud and
quiet.
and i
have
cried
for all
the times
i couldn't
hold you
and bring
you from
the cold
to this
warm
home.
i have
made
us tea.
i love
you in
the first
moments
of morning
light and
soft sleep.
the
choir is
playing a
familiar
song, and
you can
have this
for ever.
the ocean
is yellow
with
sunflowers;
the stories
are turning
the skies
pink.
i love
how you
remember
things.
your
shirt
smells
lovely.
you're
looking
at me.
air.
breath.
sounds.
the choir
is just
for you.
i love
you all
the time.

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

It's scary, the thought of being alone. No one to love you like how lovers do.
No one to kiss you like how lovers do.
But isn't it scary to love,
with no spark of madness,
no magic in each eye contact you make.
Isn't it scary to waste your time
in half hearted 'I love you's,
lies more than truths and
truths that don't inspire you.
Darling, it's scary here, to be alone
but it's more meaningful,
to eat takeout chinese for one
than to make half hearted efforts,
to kiss how lovers do,
when you're not

plum or
burgundy,
blue and
gray —
your
sweater
is the
loveliest
thing
about
today.
quietly,
this
morning
at the
dining table
has become
a place
in the
woods.
here,
i've come
again to
see you
in this
sweater.
brought
a boat
in case
you'd like
to come
with me
this time.
the trees;
new and
old and
named
after
friends
are
swaying
to the
songs
of our
voices.
and i have
dusted,
held
and
loved
the parts
of you that
have
longed
only for
this.
the blue
skies are
slowly
turning
into the
wooden
ceiling
of a
dining
room.
with two
cups of
tea and
buttered
toast,
here,
we have
made a
home out
of paper,
mugs and
morning
mumbles.
the golden
summer is
covered in
light snow.
and turns
out —
past
and
present
are almost
the same
thing.
plum or
burgundy,
blue and
gray — you
are lying
here
in this
sweater
with soft
sunlight
shining
in your
eyes;
between
the ocean
and the
woods,
suddenly,
i've spent
a lifetime.

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.