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nmo Feb 23
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.
nmo Feb 23
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.
nmo Jul 2018
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.
nmo Dec 2017
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?
nmo Nov 2017
they keep playing
that bad song,
you were obsessed with,
and it is inconvenient
because it reminds me
of you.

but i can bare it
because all
songs eventually die.

they fade out
of radios
like we did.

there will come a day
i'll hear it,
laugh,
and continue with my life
like those lyrics
are just words
but till then
i'll continue
changing
the station.
nmo Oct 2017
i
want
to find
the right
combination
of words. one,
that triggers the
right neurons, at
the right time,
in the correct
order
and makes
you realize,
like an epiphany,
that even though
my lips were not
designed to
perfectly fit
your lips;
they
still
do.
nmo Oct 2017
i am a
worn out
sign,
in an old
gas station in
the middle of nowhere.

my colors
have washed away
and are now mixed
with the stain
of years

but

with the
right
light
and
angle
you can still
read me.

a remainder;
of a golden
age.
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