Though summer is starting to fade, and we wait
for the first drop of rain to ripple our reflections,
here we are; still on hold of each other’s hand
like perfect jigsaw puzzle pieces, connecting to form
a picture. I see the sun over at the horizon, and
I am thinking of the day dying, how it burns
the horizon into an orange then eventually
a violet. I’m thinking about how this will all

to fade. By the time your eyes laid on this
poem, pupils dilated like the first time you saw
me, I’ll be off in another shore, waiting. But for
now, stand still. Fail to crumble. Grab a beer
if you had to.

There were more than tears forming rivers
on my cheeks on my mind when we consider
this trade. I think of that time when we took
a dive on the beach. How we enjoyed so much
that we let the water devour us. We did not mind
about it being our grave. We let ourselves
sink. And for whatever reasons, our souls
try to escape our body and be one
with the wind. I enjoyed it. I am also
thinking about how we sit at the shore. Waiting
for the sun to set, see how the horizon becomes
the ocean. Salt scattered stars and burned out.

I am thinking about those moments: on what to fill
the stubborn hinged photo album.

I am thinking about how many
of your hair had fallen out since we met. How many
people had you stared at despite being beside me. And if
you had kept the toothbrush I left at your house
for the entirety of our relationship. If you had swallowed
another man’s tongue. Or  if you had found
me as another tool to skin you good. I am just asking
you.

I am looking at the horizon again. The sun is setting,
burning back the light it once shared with this face
of the world, off to another so that others may know
him. As the orange turn to violet, the first drop of
rain lands on my palms. And I know, I’ve been with
the shore for far too long to see our reflections ripple
a thousand times than meant, fading
to oblivion that the ghost that you will become.

And then there’s this poem, if it’s a poem at all,
becoming the fragments we had become,

Incoherent

like everything, like our fingers now. Maybe this is
more than creeping you out. Maybe this is
more than enough to fill gaps of that stubborn
photo album. And maybe this will be a

ghost often you’ll find banging on the walls
of your mind and of your throat. Like the way

you do on me.