Sometimes life just pushes you through doors you never even noticed. Doors possessing a different keyhole than the one you have on your person. It was never locked; it stood there resolutely ignoring your breath while you ignore its oak.

You knock on it now.

You have trouble making a rhythm. Your nerves forget that doors could be opened from the outside. You stand there waiting for something to turn the ****, ignoring the fact that you are a man and you have hands and you alone have the strength to open it.

You knock some more.

Sometimes, the door is wrong. You figure out how to open it and you’re greeted by the nightfall. You put your hands in front of you and try to feel the wind. There are no gales in September. The room is a workshop and you are a doctor.

You take two steps backwards.

Life mocks you by throwing you by the same door again, some time after you forgot about the second one. You pushed it by muscle memory and was greeted by the sun. There is a bluebird perched on a willow. It sings for you, doctor. The song is for September.

The workshop at last.

If every word in this poem is equal to how much I miss you
I think this poem will never end

Listen, if I love you, I love you. ‬
Blonde streaks of sun constantly beaming will one day erase the paintwork we did on the iron fence,
but not this.

If I love you, I love you.
The toad greets the morning dew with a croak from his throat, and we fill our cups to the brim listening to our nerves, is that your heart or mine? I felt flannel slip on my fingers and I saw the daybreak.

If I love you, I love you.
Someday I will not have the guts to look at you. Someday you will not speak to me. I loved you inevitably and you will go as the universe wish. Cinema stubs will replace your scent. Your laughter is a eulogy. I will not pass by the same road twice, and you will never retrace your steps.

If I love you, I love you.
The world called and told you how to find me. My fingers answered by shutting the door. I am sorry for loving you with a heavy hand. I love you and I love you. But it is not enough.

You were so sad.

It started as waterweight, splashing around the corners of your eyes.
I could see the ocean.
You blinked once, and it was gone. I wanted to ask how come you're walking with your head down. Why are you studying the grooves in the asphalt as if it explains in some ancient text why you're dragging around your shoelaces in a cold September night.  

I wanted badly to prescribe you the medicine I remembered taking when the lips that bruised my soul became the knuckles that knocked my knees down.
I saw the universe in big ugly splotches-- purple, green, blue, spinning, spinning. You can't look me in the eye, I know.
I can't touch your cheek, I know.

But I can do this. I can write you a note that would casually show up. I can write a few sentences saying I get you-- I get you. You were alone when the collision of his skin against your temple made the ceiling dance. You were alone when you awaken one cold Sunday with laces torn around your ankles and the roses blooming on your favorite sheets. You were alone when you drove away, thinking that maybe the impact from steel to concrete wouldn't be so bad, it can't be that bad...

You were alone then. Let me tell you; You are not alone now.

I got you. I got you.

I have never seen a fighter such as yourself.

you took those arms your mother mechanically wielded and forged to your embrace
and made it burst into flowers that remind me of the second wave of spring

you took those words of a preacher and asked for forgiveness from a sin
i made you make

you killed fire with fire and flourished kindness amidst the echoes of the abyss,
and you held my hand

See, I have never seen battle scars like yours before. How they seem to twist and disappear beneath the tinge of yellow that reminds me that you have the blessing of the sun.
Or is it from the daffodils?
Whatever. I may not know
and neither will you.
But in the grand scheme of things it is not as important, is it?

you walked into the world with gravity in your hands
and you made me fall for you
i fell and i fell and it’s been three years
and i still haven’t landed
will your eyes break the fall? will
my bones turn to jelly? will
my cheeks turn to stone? will
my heart burn completely?

I have never seen such a fighter as yourself.
Sorry for staring. Sorry for the words. Sorry for the emotions that got you here. Sorry for the spilled paint. I have loved you and will love you still.

Can dahlias be blue?
I sat  by and watched idly
the morning sun brought three letters
to your face
and i traced their ridges
i swear i could feel your tongue
right then and there

if only i was brave enough to touch you
under the covers, under the silk duvet
then i guess you didn't have to
pack the yellow suitcase
the same one where i put in temporarily
the pinecones we gathered when
you finally had the guts
to tell me you dreamed about me

i watched you swat away
the remains of the night sweats after
i told you that this cannot happen
you are the lone sun and
i am the goosebumps across children's skin
you thrive in the warmth and i
am an unknown climate

i rolled away from you and closed my eyes
past the curtain and the drapes
i listened to your footsteps
echoes of uncertainty looming ahead
the tiled floor
it is very fitting these floors remind me of the
front porch steps
where i last saw my father

i lost you right then like i lost you
a couple of lifetimes before
you were reborn of the same bed
and i am still a coward

I was 10
when I first started to
pray for the cabinet to swallow me whole.
To splinch my human body into something a deity won't pass up unworthy
to enter a magical realm where
I can meet a godly lion and a warmer sun.
I was 10
and, even then,
I wanted to be more than just the creaks of the floorboard, more than the weight of my innocence, more than a mere disdainful stare.

I was 12
when I first started
looking out the window,
waiting for a temperate owl on a tropical sky. I twirled the wood chips I tore off my mother's dresser
with the pink lipstick stains, and thought to myself,
my god, my god, what a life I am destined to live.
I was 12,
and even then,
I wanted to be more than just the creaks of the floorboard, more than the weight of my innocence, more than a mere disdainful stare.

I was 16
when I first started
distancing myself from the wardrobe,
from the wooden dresser,
from the creaks of the floorboard,
from innocence.

I flicked the ash off my 20th cigarette to the tear-soaked dishcloth I gauzed on my wrist to keep me from tracing the intersecting lines my father etched on the living room floor after a night of bowling and tears and tears and sadness.

I thought to myself, my god,
my god, my god,
what life am I destined to leave?

I am 20.  
I want to be more than just the creaks of the floorboard, more than the weight of my innocence, more than a mere disdainful stare.