wor(l)ds crashing
shards of warnings
lost in the gust
split second split sky
hug of thunder
if there's anything
worthy of worship
it's the raw brutality
of a tempest
nature's dualism:
chaos and bedlam
surrounding an eye of calm
yes, now my train of thought
is snatched by the storm
empty-handed, empty-minded
brilliant from within

some seconds
sear and brand
creating Self

no matter drive
to carve new
persona

early stain
rears serpent
head

heel bruised
sets timer
ticking

his demise
rebellion has
a price

for trails mocked
to mountain top
pristine snow

rivers fuelled
brashly strong
diverted

birth
pathways
forged

straight to
waiting
sea

the hawthorn lays down its ghosts, thick
with dulling pink; the stream quivers,

its blue shadows sunken, gleaming,
at low ebb, breathing like a mirror

in the sun. beneath the trees it
is dream-like, cool, dark and

magical, the leaves little harbours
of breeze, voiceless, white as bone.

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.

August burned quickly, incipient nostalgia
prematurely vanished, mellow and gentle
sea stone on the tiled table, cedar plank
with fish, sunset through the eye-slit window

thigh high in life and riding wherever life
takes me like a hopeless romantic

The bitterness next to the desire
Love hurts! they say, but I am tired
Like weird sisters they go hand in hand
He is like an open itchy wound and you love that too
Becomes a part of him and you
It becomes the canvas for sickly passionate love
The pain as a way to connect with us
Loving you is bitter, no longer a good plan
Good memories blended with little knives
Good memories not distinguished from bad ones
What a twisted way to fall in love