i.* Build me a concrete house and I will not put a single clock on its walls because timing was never on our side anyway.

ii. This boy called Cupid is so irresponsible; he needs to stop drinking before he goes to work.

iii. One time we were so close to each other we almost touched hands
but we are sadly the perfect metaphors for continents that are constantly drifting further away from each other.

iv. I'm all ears. I don't understand why you never said anything to me before.

v. I only speak two languages but I'm cussing you in seven. Also, I miss your face but ******* and your stupid hair. You look like a  broccoli.

write her a poem
on the back of a receipt from
two weeks ago

turn it into an airplane
and with all your might
fly it towards her direction

watch it land slowly
watch her pick it up
and laugh

jesus christ
she looks so pretty
when her eyes smile like that
but *******
you weren't prepared for
the crash

why didn't anyone teach you
how to wear a parachute

The girl of your dreams
is an insomniac
and you are losing
your voice
trying to sing
her to sleep.

Pianist's fingers,
preacher's tongue,
she is the dark sky
where the stars
are hung.
A living dream in
men's perfume,
she speaks of oblivion,
the nothingness
and doom.
The question you have
remains to be answered:
How could a lady
who is named after someone
so holy
declare that the key to
people's heart
is a knife?
How could you,
who is named after someone
so wise
lose your wits
when she looks at you
with those eyes?
Fortune favors the bold
has been inked on your skin
at fifteen so you shrug
and fearlessly accept
the Little and Big
Death.

Not all the times
the universe is unkind
It has been raining
nonstop
and this little house
is warm
enough for the two of us
I woke up to
the feel of your lips
on my shoulder
Angel face, you smell of
toothpaste and
cocoa
(What did I ever do
to be the one
you say I love you to?)
I regret
cursing the stars that
one
drunken
night

I am God's draft,
something He was meaning to finish but
got distracted in the process with rainbows and tulips,
the birds and the bees,
certainly the much more beautiful and riveting things.

I was born three days late so I am always apologizing to
other people for my tardiness but mostly to myself for
constantly missing the good parts.

The angel keeping an eye on me would have six fat books of
the lies I've shamelessly spat out for almost two decades now
and I wonder if they would let me stack them up so I could have
even just a peek of what heaven looks like after Atlas
finally decides to retire.

I constantly think about death, tragedy and loss.

Maybe it's because of my problematic playlist or
the sick humor of my friends. Maybe it's just me trying to find
meaning in everything and studying things but in the back of my head
I can picture the philosophers howling in laughter.

Maybe it's because they know I'm meant just to be a draft.
I read somewhere that
                               *A work of art is never finished, only abandoned.

i. The soft hum of someone playing Claire de Lune next door and you putting your hair up and exposing your neck makes me feel like I am in a film so perfectly made I  just want to capture every single movement of you and keep them in the safest and sanest corner of my brain.

ii. You say it's such a divine night; I say I'm so sure that even the
Devil's knees would buckle when he hears you speak.
I noticed the fireflies are lighting up themselves even more brightly.
I bet it's because they are trying to outshine you, but they will all fall dead even before they do so.

iii. There's a marching band inside my chest and for some reason tonight feels like Christmas, New Years and my birthday all at once.
The other day my mom said she thinks I am getting better.
I said, yes, mom, my old self finally decided to come home.

Twenty-three and skeptic. White teeth
and red lips.

*****-mouthed five foot seven countess.
Thoughts so lush, so green.

Intelligent but not unexciting.

Scarred right hand by climbing up but
wanting to know what falling feels like.

Unhinged.

Caught 4 out of 5 bouquets in weddings
she's attended. Claimed it should be an Olympic sport.

Breaks hearts like they are bones.

The love of my life.

Tears and yelling
Big, raging steps
His hand spilling my bottle
of ink

The thunderous sound of the door
slamming and the silence after it

Chest pain

One hundred failed attempts to write
mediocre poetry
Red lipstick on dry lips
Untouched meals and empty beer cans

A baseball bat
A cracked windshield
And a neighbor pinning me down

More tears

And the taste of asphalt
and defeat.

An overcrowded bus;
my elbow touching yours.
Pretty-eyed gem,
I say to myself as you look up to me.

In the background I can hear Etta James singing and teasing--
*At last, my love has come along...

Her, watching you silently. You, doing the same.

Stealthy like a cat.
Innocent glances that are not so innocent.
Forbidden, like the apple. But so sweet--
never mind the toothache or
the possible heartbreak.

Your name rolling on her tongue
so smoothly, so holy
makes you want to sin again and again.
You ask,
How do I stop?
She grins, bares it all.
You do not want to stop.
Skin burning hot, careful not to touch but
not touching feels like hell.

Hell, she sings songs like an angel in pleasure
and in pain
so you sing with her an immaculate duet.

Your warm mouth on hers,
bodies gracefully moving together.
A perfect synchronization;
one thousand over ten.

Bliss.

I. You
Aimlessly wandering this sphere of a world,
seeing it only in black and white like an old television -
soundless and dull.
The radio is spewing nothing but bad news;
in the evening comes the skull-cracking static.

You.
A non-believer, a heretic.


II. Her
Bellissima.
The fairest of them all.
A winged one; glowing.
Her soft fingers brushing against your face
makes you feel like a canvass carefully being painted on.
Her scent - daisies and safety.
Odd, but you are more than content.

III. You*
Aimlessly wandering this sphere of a world
have her palms as a map now and her face
as a guide to not be lost again.
The world sings more beautifully and every single thing is ethereal.
There is no more static.

You.
A non-believer, a heretic,
now knows how to say grace.