Crystalized memories,
shining in the palm
of your outstretched hand.
Too far away – blinded
by their innocence;
I turn away.
eyes hands mind
closed – I lost
My place in them.

The overcast skies reveal a cluster of cumulonimbus clouds,
a day so dreary and dark that it conjures the idea of fleeing
-- escaping into mindless memories of better times,
sitting in the grass field next to the Markthal in Rotterdam,
opening another bottle of soju in a murky downstairs Seoul bar,
a bar where more than once her feet had buckled under the weight
of one too many drinks, stairs lopsided and wobbly as her steps,
getting stuck in traffic on the way back to the airport of Kuala Lumpur,
tears on her cheeks streaked parallel lines, etched into her make-up
as if a part of her, dripping down into her lap where her fists
were balled up, clenched tight and shaking from the pressure,
visiting Singapore’s Supertree Grove in a one-day trip,
traveling back to Europe, now in Berlin, next day in Prague,
where the standout memory is one too many shots of Becherovka.
Back home it is ten degrees and rain is slowly drizzling down,
the streets are covered with a reflective surface, a mirror
she does not want in front of her, a confrontation she does not want
She left Carcassonne’s castle behind alone, retraces the steps
as if the outcome could still be changed, a mindless mind game
When the sky clears clear contrasts are formed
her escapism has escaped and she is like an esclave to her thoughts.
She travels through all her travels but no what ifs are left to be explored
Tomorrow the weather turns again and so will her memories,
an endless labyrinth she has not yet found an exit to.

The décor of a half-set sunset;
the blowing wind whistling
witless tunes, the river of life
well-rested like a fed fish
Or maybe dead. Lifeless
The rustling of leaves sets
against her whimpering voice
The background of the end
is the end of the day;
the end of movement,
Their lifetime

Her body is not an empty canvas,
it's a hilly mountain, uneven and lopsided
some parts portruding -- sometimes soft,
sometimes bony
It's the waves of the sea, ebb and flow, changing
One time she is okay with what she sees,
the next she wants nothing more but to get rid
of the excess, of the parts that don't please her
Her body is crossed with scars, all the things
she doesn't like highlighted in white,
marked

She's not happy

Coarse sand on both sides, a vast canvas of nothingness,
a sea of gold; swallowing us up in its own world.
An indentation of you, twigs and shells
Low-rising sun in the horizon; last rays splattering
smidgens of light down on you
I take you in – sitting down with a bottle of wine,
next to an empty cottage, shoes off, toes covered.
You’re looking ahead – at the ebb and flow of water,
at a seagull perching down in front of us,
You’re observant and you love the world, look at it
see its beauty.
I’m not that selfless. Here on this beach, surrounded by ourselves,
all I pay attention to is the rise of your mouth, curving
into a smile, at your hands, at your striped t-shirt and your jeans
I take you in – the wind’s blowing your hair around,
sun’s almost down but you’re still bright
I carve your name into the beach, and admire
my handiwork. You take my hand and we have one last
walk around, footprints in the sand, wobbling slightly
but you keep me balanced

There’s nothing quite like saying goodbye;
one day, a day like any other, it ends.
You used to be a part of my life
My mornings, my nights --
my winter, spring, summer and fall
How ironic is it, that we say goodbye now,
in the season we met each other?
Fresh fallen snow in front of my feet.
Just like that very first day;
I wish this day, too, would end
with you by my side once more

Black ink sprawled across a page,
Delirious writings; unfortunate musings
-- truth obfuscated, a pink haze
a tinted hue hiding the monsters lying beneath

An oil spill of paradoxes;
what once was true is no longer,
Confused, hurt, worried
Which version is the truth
-- do you believe what you see,
or what you want to?

she tiptoes,
graceful steps, no sound when her feet touch the ground
-- like her feet are feathers and she’s the bird, tied down
she tiptoes
every movement of hers is subtle and subdued and almost slow
for no reason but to be quiet – ah, there it is
she did it wrong
she apologizes but—it’s never okay
there is a circle around her wrist,
it’s a bracelet of distrust, discolored and discernible
too much so maybe
and she tiptoes
arched up like she’s taking flight but then she never does
black markings on her arm like a collar; holding her back
holding her down or maybe just holding her
-- in place, unmoving and unchanging away from the torrent of time
or right in there, aging her fast and soon she’ll be unable
to fly
she tiptoes