Someone from the same house I’ve always lived in,
got invited to a birthday party,
like I used to, a few Septembers ago.
Now, nobody sends me invitations.

Sometime later, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
there will be a birthday party,
like there used to be, a few Octobers ago.
No, there won’t be. I lied.

Somehow, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
there will be traces of tears at a birthday party,
like there have been for the past few years.
No, not a party —
but bring your tissue paper along.

Someone from the same house I’ve always lived in,
will say “Happy Birthday”
through a feast, a little nod,
a few “you’re still a kid today” moments,
and more “leave it to me, love — live a little.”

Words turn into actions
when you're a little considerate,
or more so, if you’re a parent.

Sometime later, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
you’ll hear the echoes of almost-said thank-yous.
disguised as 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭,
a quiet agreement,
a few 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵,
more 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.

The graveyard of my gratitudes
has always been buried next to
my willingness to be present —
available, if you may.

Somehow, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
parties will be hosted again.
Birthday parties, even.
But attended by phantoms of abandonment,
because nobody really lives there anymore.

The permanence of everything is unsettling.
The house you grew up in
knows nothing about what the future holds.

And somewhere between all these celebrations,
the mourning of what was planted — and decayed — continues.
The phantoms still prefer
to live in the houses
we’ve always lived in.

Now, I don’t write on paper,
my notepad leaves no scars when erased.

Now, I don’t wait for miracles,
my solitude doesn’t ask to be entertained.

Now, I don’t lag behind,
my walk doesn’t cross their marathon.

Now, I don’t play past me,
my new self doesn’t validate her.

Now, I don’t think about you often,
my conscience refuses to hold the blur.

Now, I don’t regret anything,
my integrity doesn’t rely on mistakes, mishaps, haps.

Now, I attempt—
a constant trial of forming outlines:
my thoughts, my what’s, my if’s, my you,
the vastness, the voids, the rainbows, the sunshine.

A selfish occurrence—
I seek to make sense of my pretentious tactics,
to validate and hide the enormity of divinity,
and the desire I see in you—my ‘don’t’s.

Do you remember that forenoon?
When I envisioned you making macarons,
And how they turned out like a scrumptious moon
I described them as an ambrosial boon,
Wondering if it was their crackle, or the exquisite voice
Of fairies singing the song of the afternoon.

I pondered whether they were
A perquisite,
An alluring confection, or just a comestible cocoon.

Well, I can't help but request
That you come over again
To relive that same enchanted afternoon.

I had a dream I saw you.
You were the light passing through my window, reflecting on my journal.
I keep finding that light everywhere.
I do see you everywhere.
Light, light, light — that's you.

But the truth is:
There’s no journal.
I don’t keep logs
of who I love
and what I adore.

But I had a dream —
I saw you.

The journal is a metaphor for all the words I swallow
when I want to scream —
when you ask me anything and I’m not sure
what to say, except that I yearn for the light.

I want to keep finding you
deliberately, accidentally, intentionally, religiously.
I do. I do. I do.

On the strangest day, in the best way —
I do want you to pierce me,
as they say, in half hope
and half agony.

I had a dream...