play me an air
   a bluebird lament
something meant for the breathing
  to remember

  all i want to hear
is a soft melody
  sad as the winter
still on the wind

     let your bow waltz
on the strings of my heart
     let the sound
  of your fiddle
set sail

play me an air
   like the bluebird did
     while i dance
  with the snow
in my hair.

your absence hits me like a hit and run,
a car that keeps barreling on until it falls off a cliff.
the last time the sun rose was the last time you kissed me,
yet I am still left breathless.
I think
it was you
who has taken my breath away.
I love you so recklessly,
so recklessly,
that the next air I taste will be the salty kind that hangs off a cliff.
how long have I been peeling my nails off with rocks, barely holding on
when I have already grown wings
from loving you?

falling is a funny thing.
one can never shake off the loneliness of having
whistling air as
the only voice
begging you to stop the fall.
I have grown so used to the feel of your hands
cushioning my back
that I have forgotten how the clouds feel
below my feet.
I have forgotten how it feels
to be the only one in this world.

Promise me this:
Promise you won't call anymore.
And you won't send me flowers.
You won't listen to our song.
And you won't build me all these towers.
You won't speak to me ever.
Nor write me a single letter.
*But over all, promise me you'll keep breaking your promises,
especially the ones you just vowed to.

His fingers brushed the path of her arm
From wrist to elbow to shoulder
Gradually resting at the nape of her neck

Her head lolled back
Resting its weight in his offered cupped palm
Her breath reduced to a sigh

She briefly closed her eyes
Before pulling away from his touch
And hurriedly walked off in her own direction

No words were said, no declaration,
but his outstretched hand
Spoke volumes

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

when i hear your delicate words,
and read the ones you've
also constructed on paper,
i want to smash them to bits,
because i know then i will find
the truth inside the broken pieces