I was always in such a rush
to find the trick behind it all.
I wanted to understand
how ants divide labor, and
how vacuum cleaners **** dust.

I wanted someone
to pat me on the shoulder and tell me: -congratulations,
you cracked the code-
it’s all downhill from here.

I looked for answers
in text books, YouTube,
Late night debates
with my smartest friends
in the parking lot
of that Burger King no longer exists,
Feminist slam poetry
with a bunch of middle class revolutionaries,
Recorded post-modern philosophy classes, and every
self
help
book out there.

I listened to all the theories,
read all the arguments.
stitch them into
a patchwork blanket /
theory of everything.

But I still can’t explain:
- Why I wake up on this bed all alone?
- What took you out of my arms?
- How did we drift 855km away?
- When will it all make sense?
- What is all this ******* pain for?

Can someone please tell me.

all the answers to
my questions can
be found in my
old old poems
(or by
applying common-
sense tbh…)

how f#cked up
do we really are
that we can’t
see the obvious,
plain, and simple
truth
when it’s just
in front of us?!!?
sorry,
I meant inside* of us.

your name
is still on my door’s
nameplate.
next to mine.

i haven’t had
the strength to
change it.

you know how much
i hate doing
mundane things:
cooking dinner,
washing dishes,
folding clothes.

but sometimes,
you just need to do it;
you know…
the work.

i wonder
how we managed
to convince our hands
not to hold onto each other
when we said goodbye.

now, i'm writing
inside this flying can;
thinking this might be the closest
to a home.

these small seats,
with even smaller legs space.
these funny-shaped windows,
where all you can see are
white clouds,
and sporadically
some lights.
tiny houses,
with even tinier people.

and us,
tiny giants,
reading overpriced perfume catalogs,
listening to mispronounced english,
using disposable low-fidelity headphones,
inside low-light low-love low-cost
low-everything
airplanes.

the cities
redraw their borders and
fragment their spaces
into small cubes:
apartments,
studios,
and duplex houses.
and you,
with a thousand windows open
in windows,
your emoji hands,
and your microphone muted.

please. no.
don't make me
domesticate this
with words.
i don't want to name it;
grabbing, whatever this is,
and pushing it
inside a box,
a bra, a khaki short,
a short light purple skirt.
believe me,
we can use language
for nobler things.
this needs no words,
nor tags,
but your body
against mine.

i feel
how you feel
about me
and it’s uncomfortable
but i pretend
i don’t notice.
playing fool
makes things easier
and allows me to avoid
having to tell you:
no.
i wonder why i get
your attention,
your compliments.
is it because i’m young
or foreign
or fool
or all of them.
would you still buy me
this drink if i was not young,
not foreign,
less fool;
and
how this gin
would taste?