Everytime I close my eyes,
Sunday afternoon comes to mind.
Sometimes when I close my eyes,
there is only white noises.
The Sunday in my head is always sunny;
rarely it rains.
When it rains on Sunday,
I am reminded of school uniform;
sweaty and sticky,
but it is still Sunday.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I can smell Sunday.
The smell of Sunday in my head—
consists of jasmine, pandan, and milk.
The Sunday in my head rarely rains.
When it rains, it smells like **** and soil.
The sunny side of my Sunday is not always bright—
and my wet Sunday is not always gloomy.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I see myself tracing Sunday.
I run my fingers through the odds of—
possibilities and the ambience of the present.
You see, I cannot imagine anyone but myself—
in my Sunday.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I see no one.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I see silhoutte of myself.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I see myself leaving trails.
Everytime I close my eyes,
It was all in my head all along.
Blessed with the odds,
my Sunday goes by very slowly;
so slow sometimes I caught myself in turbulence.
From violent shower to the still lake,
I avoid meeting myself on the foreground.
If I ever crossed path in the middle,
I would be non-existent;
none of this would matter,
and there will never be my Sunday.

Sarah Radzi
In Between Four Walls,
19.08.2018,
01:56

I met Virginia in a wave of sleet.
On Decatur, a hundred winters ago,
with a black iris, black hair in ponytail,
with a tongue like a nightcrawling widow,
Virginia whispered tornados behind the backs of the
grey-suited saxophone players, going blue in the cheeks,
under their blackface.

Under a flimsy sheet of moon sliver sky and a dim streetlight,
Virginia kicked a soda can along the cracking concrete.
With each bar we passed, I hollered, "Thank God we're alive!"
and danced a shapeless jig.

Near Williamson cemetery, Virginia's white knuckles laced into mine.
"The amount of time we have cheapens whatever purpose we have,"
Virginia hissed.

I caressed her serpentine neck.
A lone car's high beams
made Virginia's silhoutte tower above the cemetery gates,
made Virginia's black irises madden to poisonous yellow.

She loosened my grey necktie.
I let down her hair.
A sea of collected strands fell
like a closing curtain.
The distant saxophone ascended to heaven,
leaving me below,
leaving me below,
leaving me to spend the night bellowing for above.

i saw a Silhouette as clear as can be
a figure of an angel there in front of me
the shadow of her wings reflecting in the night
an halo round her head shining very bright
whispering my name as she hovered over head
calling out to me as i lay in my bed
i felt very safe and my heart it filled with love
the silhouette i saw was sent from up above

a hoopoe flew to  silhoutte
with  snail or such lark..
pivotted a proud head
a grin like a wise  monarch..

it´ s variegated plummage
blackened by twilight´
sigh..
side to side it´ s mischievous
eye..!

and all a rush now away
up and away!
savoured it´ s catch at
the end of the day..

home to it´s roost
in a flurry of detailed
be-
the swallow and hushed
agave..

I'd like to trace your fault lines
Further than the bruises that grace under your eyes
And to trace the epicenter to our star signs
Take my hand, let's run away, 'cos baby you were born to fly

And when you choke back the words you don't wanna admit
All I can think is maybe this is finally my time
To take my chances and ease my palms around your heart
And let it rest easy with an improvised lullaby

My timing is flawed, I have no sense of time
My words are so useless when distance cuts our ties
And when I see how the autumn moon is held by the sky
I can't help but hope that someday that's you and I

Should I move forward or hang back and play it cool?
And watch to see if your silhoutte comes over the horizon
Either way, I'm gonna play the fool
Either way, you've already won

So take my hand, let's run away, 'cos baby you were born to fly
I've never had wings, but I'll try to keep up if you don't mind

I never proposed myself to be someone else and
The conception of being the best.
Perpending myself "why Not me"
There's an answer. I know. Don't speak words about it.

I don't have any words from you
You can't sing a song for me.
You'll never think of it.
You can't write things about me.
You'll never think of it.
I hate the way your words keep me safe
And the sight of me as nonentity
Leaving me cold and floating dead in the sea

Frantic.
I don't want you to open your eyes seeing me so worried
Angst.
Morbid, that's morbid.
Why the "other" is always better
Your eyes never landed on mine.
My eyes, my eyes that bursting on love and desire.

This ain't just love
This ain't just jealousy
This is something
This is something you need to see

My heart speaks the language of love
That will never be heard
The feelings,
My feelings, it's weary.
Flying in the surface of fire
Soon it will be burned, that'll the ashes mix in the air.

And there's nothing.

Nothing. I hope you won't regret the things you barely knew. Just lie to yourself I don't want you to feel hurt or bad. That's all I can give to you, My love.

i saw a Silhouette as clear as can be
a figure of an angel there in front of me
the shadow of her wings reflecting in the night
an halo round her head shining very bright
whispering my name as she hovered over head
calling out to me as i lay in my bed
i felt very safe and my heart it filled with love
the silhouette i saw was sent from up above

If you can't spot infatuation
like black crescent shaped moons of dirt
packed up tight beneath finger nails
which wave and sway and point me in
all the wrong directions-
then we have a problem.

Barely propped up on my bed,
slightly hunched, typical 4 am candor-
“You're full of good songs”
you begging for sleep, me begging for company
sitting naked, adjacent, tossing cigarettes carelessly
out a second story window, between a softly lit lamp glow.

HA,
speaking of second stories- here's one for the books.
I can make out that shady sauntering silhoutte from miles away
in the blackest of places, abyss like spaces.
And can hear your muted whispery voice-
coughing up a lung from a song you've left unsung.

and while its far from symbitotic
and edging closer towards psychotic
there's a problem.
If I can't be responsible for myself,
for my stumbling and mumbling
and tracing goosebumps up your neckline
falling in love with the slight hint of a spine-

how can I be a mother and a lover
an obsessor, undressor, pining to
touch my tongue-
to taste the cut from some rusted razorblade
that made its way across skin untouchable-
must've tripped over that notch on your neck-

another night, another bar-
another random blonde girl craning her neck through foggy windows
past me, hungrily
searching for your eye contact
all the while i'm pressing the pen to my own fatal contract-
no more, not worth the time, not worth the effort for the pursuit of his comfort-
She looks like shes salavating, pathetic and starving-
If you have this effect on every girl that resembles me-
then I wish you'd leave me be, let me sleep, disappear from dreams

but how can I be trusted to disregard a feeling
that is settled so deeply in the pit of my stomach
one which swirls and twirls like sand
disturbed by some prodding finger
at the sight of you -

illuminated, engaged, aware of every ambivalent motion.
at your entrance, a beckon, an accidental glance
you happened to toss in my direction-

Everything you do seems arbitrary-
pity kisses, responses days late
with this ever forced fake mysterious aura-
come & go as you please,
feelings absent – words incoherent.

i clench my fists and crack my wrists.
the human experience isn't one best done alone
(not that you'll ever know)
having some eccentric faith in autonomy
and an innate interest in my anatomy
all the while believing its a form of blasphemy
to take some remote interest in whatever I can claim to be.