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i spent my nights awake, lingering thoughts
wanting to reach the shore of your looking.
    look here then, at these rose-colored hands.
thorned. slowly escaping me with every bloom.
i have spent my suffering erasing myself.
tell me, why does the traveller weeps when he reaches his
does he weep because he ceases to be
what he suffered to become?

what is within this reaching which reaches
past me, should i, too, turn that way back again?
perhaps there is something calling back from where
we began.

tell me, why the traveller turns,
why does he leave that which he suffered for?
all those nights awake, sending his thoughts out into the night,
to be here now only to turn and run back?
    does the wilting take place here or
    have we been wilting since first sight?

i reached the shore only to be met with another regret
should i have drowned in the sea i crossed to get to you?
what is better for a traveller than to travel back to the place
where his suffering began.
After Pablo Neruda’s “Goodbyes”
A white flourishing flower swirls
in my cup and forms the first curve of a beginning.

I am holding on to the end of your kite.
Running —throwing dust up in the air—
We are four years old, our age smaller than
the letters in our name.

Last summer i cut my hair shorter, it hit the
back of my neck like a memory, forgotten,
awoke from its sleep and spirals out into existence again.

Outside the peach trees shed their flowers
revealing fruit and i thought of candles and
wanted to be sun-kissed for the first time.

I remember writing our names in candle wax —that
summer on the balcony two letters swelter in the heat,
a brief history of wax pooled at our feet —I felt
finite for the first time in my life.

my first try at a zuihitsu
Midnight Rain Aug 20
you turn me away from turning away,
which is a regretful way to say you
have seen my back more times than my face.

i say, keep me here, facing the way you face
because most of my life it has been like this,
which is to say that turning away almost
feels likes it's inherent and i can't help it
––i always look back.
        but my fear has always been greater than my hope.
and i am afraid of the softness of this moment,
afraid that if i turn to you, the moment will turn away from me
and my hands, and you will be lost forever in the depths
of all the things i left behind me.
yet, more often than not, i have wished to be more
wind than person,
to turn every which way without fear.
to turn and turn, again and again, until i no longer know
which way was forward and which way was back.

can i be lost like this or in such a way? i hardly know at all,
perhaps i already am, i hardly remember my face.

eyes of my night,
where do i keep you?
you, who appears from my silence.
you, who cuts out from the sky and descends
even in my loneliness—
     you, who looks at me
knowing you’ll disappear as soon as i blink
—as if i wouldn’t find you lost in a memory,
lingering in the shadow of my sleep.  
as if i wouldn’t dream dreams of your
face, like a prayer, resurfacing from the palms of my hands.

where do you go leaving like this then—when even your leaving stays here with me; your disappearance ripples through me, tears me down before i even wake from sleep.

Midnight Rain Jul 12
man knows nothing better than his own face
but even my face is a face i do not recognize
a face so smeared with nights
     it blinks
and i blink out of existence
        it opens
and i reappear from the first
layer of darkness gasping out Your name
in a voice that begged for
forgiveness for the theft i committed.

man knows nothing better than to plunge
his hands in nights and rip out a
nameless face from
it; not caring if it is his own
—not caring if someone else is walking
around only knowing his name
and never his own face.
what do i do with this now?
i push faces back into the darkness they
came from.
and in silent redemption i call for myself in a chasm
looking for a face i can recognize again
and only echos answer back, pleading to be let out
not knowing that what they hear is themself
in all directions

—not knowing that i am nothing more than a
part of darkness cut from darkness, doomed and
blind, seeking a light that can
recognize me and give my namelessness a name and faceless face a face.

#i want to write but nothing comes out #useless post #i have so much  to say #please God give me a smidgen of  wonder #i’ll use it well
Midnight Rain May 15
how do i take my body out to space
and be so weightless
that gravity pulls out my teeth
and carries them to jupiter.
my body has been trying to
fly away from me all my life
––it stays in awkward grief.
how do i vanish away from myself, be so
full of nothing that all voids are full of me.
             yet, i know,  to be nothing is still to be something.
because in nothingness i see my own reflection
reflecting back at me ––an eye looking at the eye
which does not exist yet still exists––
        what is it that they say about paradoxes again?
        they never quite make sense but hurt in all the
        right places.
is this what this is or what it is not?

i missed writing even though i have no idea what it means to me anymore
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