I remember every month you would get a haircut
because you couldn't stand the strands touching your face.
You blew it out of your eyes
and folded it back from your forehead
but you weren't at peace until it was gone.

When you left,
it wasn't entirely your fault.
I liked tomato soup while you liked chicken noodle;
you watched television in the mornings while I flipped through the channels at night;
I couldn't blame you
we just didn't work out.

Yet in this moment I am biking past your house,
it is late and I can see the television flashing through in the window shades.
It is when the house is out of sight when I start thinking of you;
the yellow dotted street line is your spine and I am tracing the curves with my wheels,
the leaves strewn across the road are your freckles and I am so lost
in a sea of your anatomy that I do not even notice the headlights.

They say before you die your life flashes before your eyes,
but all I see is the television through the window,
strands of me draped across your face,
and how at peace you must be now that I'm finally gone.

We don’t usually see each other,
I’m asleep, dreaming myself a superhero, or a maybe a victim
You creep around, so as not to wake me,
envelopment in the warmth that comes from the layers and layers
I have stacked on my body
gently rippling like a sheet in a warm summer breeze.

But occasionally we meet,
my tired eyes still open wide searching for a focus point
my fingers moving lazily across the keyboard
drunk from a mix of one part darkness, three parts chill,
hitting letters to form words in a language I can assume is only understood by gods.
In you creep, slowly growing as the twinkling lights on the sidewalk
blink out,
one
by one,
hiding whatever the darkness holds.

You lose you warmth,
become a ghost passing through and chilling my bones
putting knots in my spine, hunching me over,
my legs become twisted and contorted under me
as you slowly **** the life out of one foot
sticking it with a million little needles

This is your invitation to sleep,
by making consciousness so unbearable
that every blink becomes longer, as if trying to escape whatever reality
I’ve been forced to stay up with this long.

You lay me down, pull up the covers,
holding me gently like a lover
letting me rest
letting me escape
letting me sleep.

Is it wrong to be scared to have children?
Of raising them on this bitter, bloodthirsty planet?
Where their voices will be muted,
and “more important” matters disputed,
so they'll feel useless, irrelevant, or null.
I am truly terrified to have children,
who will be reduced to simplicity by this world.
Though individuality may come in flashes,
anything colourful will be burned to ashes,
And the sparks of identity lost.
But then I remember they'd be my children,
So their voices would surely be heard.

Winter canters  from a distance, irresistible she is,
                                    I'd roll in my tranquil bed with her,
              then, her embraces would  become an intoxicant,
                    making me dive in to the lake  of stupor she creates
                                              for me to swim with her.