i am empty

empty

not blank

not poem-less sheet of notebook paper empty

not missing

not one missing sock from my daily laundry empty

i am empty

like the space in the glass box where an exhibition in the museum of broken hearts used to be



so


empty.

i should've listened to my mother
when she was talking to me about omens and premonitions
like how the glass slid off the table top that day
and i went out anyway

i should've listened to my mother
when she was talking about lucky numbers and feng shui
like how we met on friday the thirteenth
"mom, you're being cheesy, there's no such thing.)

i should've listened to my mother
when she spoke of trembling hands and death
like how i shouldn't have left an hour earlier that day
because the dishes broke in the sink
and my father decided that wasn't a good enough reason to stay.

i must admit that i am in awe of the way you walk past
the immigration office
(or the way you walked out that door, but we musn't dwell on things)

like you have nothing to hide - like secrets float off your cheek
(it's rather silly how your secrets are much more obvious when you toss and turn underneath my sheets)

therapists told me to take a journey well into my soul
(they told me to dive, but we both know i'm only capable of unintentionally falling)

they told me to visit my happy place so i threw a dart at the map
(but let's be honest - without you home already feels like a dingy motel.)

and it amazes me how now with all the rust you've smothered onto my veins, you still expect me to walk peacefully through airport metal detectors.

at the time a polaroid was a mark of friendship
so we decided to go raid a photobooth
but the pictures never captured
they never got the time to

because across the street was a fancy new camera shop
with a fancy new cashier
who had pretty, pretty hair
and could actually fit into a polaroid with you

but i hit the wrong button
and the flash never came
but there were pictures printed
just of your hands around her waist

i took about 50 copies
and tossed the receipt into the lake,
i scattered the letters of your name into the rain.

i'm sorry my hands don't shake the way you expect them too i'm to busy trying to collect the ocean to have a weak grasp on you and i'm sorry that i can't build a road back to you the gravel in my throat has turned into lava and there's not enough dust on the walls to turn that lava into glue and i'm sorry that when i step on glass i cry out for you although i'm pretty sure you were the one who wasn't able to split this wine bottle into two but the shards remind me of you and i'm pretty sure somewhere in this apology i said that i'm sorry for loving you

what she thought was a family portrait, was a lesson for what happens when you lose one side of a pair of shoes - you can never buy just one again, it comes in a set of two.

what she thought was a stove, was an analogy for the kind of love her parents failed to tell - there's nothing more cruel than love, nothing will feel as good as hell.

what she thought were anniversary flowers, were rolled up versions of paper planes telling her mother she now had to use her grandfather's last name, or her mother's maiden name, if only her father had let it stay.

what she thought was his face (on a pretty grand mirror showered with lace), was nothing but a crack in the wall, and also the reason why her father never called.

It's that time of the year again,
There are jasmine buds
Inside my pocket
And I walk my yard
With ink stains on fingers.
At a distance
I see you and take refuge
In your love
The hooting breeze
Walk my door, but
When I sit to write
Love poems, there
Are only bald-chested hills
And ghosts of dead farmers
Grazing my eyes
What should I write to you?