there’s a boy who has my heart,
with gentle hands and gentle eyes,
who loves me unconditionally,
who would give me the world
wrapped up in a pretty box if he could,
whose mouth travels no further
than to my own,
who shows me what it means
to love and be loved.

there’s a boy i see every week,
with dark eyes and hands
that look rough and ruthless,
who shows me that i’m human,
flawed and full of rage, lust, fire,
whose mouth begs to meet mine,
dares me to make a thousand mistakes,
who pushes my imagination
into the most primal parts of my mind.

1.
*Her bleary red eyes
tired from carrying heavy load on her head-
all day long, while harsh sun was beating down,
still looks  beautiful like a doe's, in the soft light of dusk;
with wonder they peer, at the glinting necklace,
extending down the night's blue black *******.

Are they white diamonds or moon drops,
falling from the clear part of the sky
just now freed from the hold of clouds?
Like an eagle, sudden lightening swoops down,
exposing  trees hiding  in darkness,
reminding ogres, that come chasing her in nightmares.
But the flash embellishes the cloud, the shy moon takes cover;
the cloud in that moment, transforms to a sheer silvery dress-
for the moon to wear proudly,  at any temple fair.
2.
The celestial dance  of light and darkness
is stunning; makes her wonder aloud:
"Such beauty! I only need this to forget my pains"
with sweet power, it hits her, bringing to her mind,
the waves of pleasure erupted from her *****,
that she felt once, just once,  with her man.

She couldn't understand,  how it happened, life still hides some secrets.
It was like a randy male goat, barging in to her home compound,
opening the closed gate swiftly, hitting softly with its head,
for a brief moment, she didn't know what happened, and how
the waves of pleasure, swept her off her feet, she floated, like a cloud,
in her sun scorched life, that never  happened again.
3.
Existing  as a cacophony as long as it is awake, the village,
is still, went to sleep, except moon and a  few like her,
the chattering of women in the market had died down
dogs do not bark, the drunks aren't cursing dogs
or clashing with others who come their way.
Late at this hour, a lone  night owl stirs,
his urgent hoots, resound making him more egregious.
She would go to sleep, if the owl stops,
then, to his snores she would turn a deaf ear as usual,
and let him slither like a snake,
in his part of the  bed till morning breaks,
When--
it's again time for her to trek to the well too far,
to fetch water, before the women of next village,
come flocking with pots and pails.

I think I've spent my life waiting for her.

With bated breath,
I've stood on  tiptoe
scanning the passing crowd.

With clenched fist,
I've held back tears
insisting that she was just around the bend.

With wavering voice,
I've made desperate claims
assuring myself and others that we would meet soon.

Yet, when
for the first time, I recognize her countenance.
She isn't what I'd pictured or even hoped for,
but the familiarity is comforting nonetheless.
She - her - the awaited identity - is not a foreign dream.
No.
She is the face staring back in the mirror.
The reflection I've known for years.

But for the first time, upon seeing her, I stop waiting.

I spend every waking moment
sleeping in your memory,
for here I feel less alone
and more like other wandering souls
trying to find their way home

Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Minor
if I met the constellations,
picked the stars from the sky,
perhaps they might match
up to the sparkle in your eyes

Watch fall phase to snow;
wonder why sadness stays
while seasons go

Leaf, flower, fruit seed oh
wilting rose, dead tree
silence takes its toll

See, I tip toe around your thoughts
while you drown me whole.

(A.H.Z)

Crossing over the train tracks
to get to where you were
it wasn't that hard.

I never realized all the other obstacles I had to endure
until it was too late
until I stopped coming over.
A bridge, our high school, some shopping centers.
And stoplights. So many stoplights.

Sometimes, I still hear the train whistle from inside the depths of my room late at night.
I wonder if you hear it too, at 10:38 p.m. on Sundays,
and I wonder if you think of me.
But I never go that route anymore.

you said you needed space;

darling,
i can offer you galaxies and the vast infinities within.

or,
you can fill the gaps between my fingers with yours.

I am a man: little do I last
and the night is enormous.
But I look up:
the stars write.
Unknowing I understand:
I too am written,
and at this very moment
someone spells me out.