how would've the last kiss been,
if you knew we're gonna be locked up away.

how would the next kiss be,
since you know it's a few months of craving,

i can't wait.

The walls have managed to keep me well-aloof and apart
It was March just the other day
My prison cocoons me in the cool autumn wind
Not sure of what danger is out there
War, virus, riots and ****
It’s a crazy world, I am safe.
I question my safety now and then.
My sanity I question more often.

I twirled in front of my dresser
Posing for acquaintances
Smiling through the boredom
Of never-ending video conferences.
The strain is showing through
On threadbare patience
Straining at the slightest provocation.

The glaring screen tempts me  
Into one last indiscretion
Of unreasonable outrage.
Elections, propaganda and
Undeserved praise
Who is worthy? You say.
Valid question.

The stench of my stale room
Reeks of carbon dioxide
The air around me
Threatening death
Inside outside
Masks always existed
Now they only cover more
Not just your intentions
And it is fine; Nightmares
Are better hidden

My prison cell comforts me
And I get accustomed
To the confinement
Of my own house
Months have passed
Days are passing
Minutes seem longer now

I liked the way you and
your crisscrossed legs sat on
my middle-school-ignorant
navy-blue and daisy-patterned comforter,
watching,
hearing,

the way your fingers crept
towards the neck of my ukulele
while the magnetized look in your eyes drew mine and
my own fingers fell
slack in divine-driven intrigue,

the way you and
your eyes
full of quiet study and wisdom, like
worship, like
your respect of this instrument as not wood but as
hundreds of years of polished amber-tinted history
has earned you ownership, and it
does.

you and
your fingers then
spun aching minor chords, like
worship, like
somehow, in the sparkling incensed-violet melody you
spilled all over
me in my righteous nihilism

you and
your body became an
offering, and
the wood

burned my fingertips when you
handed it back to me, ashamed and awe-stricken, like
worship, like
your life is an offering, and even

when I found the notes you played
(on this instrument that is not mine)
200 days and 200 nights after I knew you and
your legs sitting on my bed and
your multidimensional fingers,
worshipping,

no matter what I tell myself, I
am not a believer in beyond, and
pretending to pray just reeks of
my own mortality.

I think the funny thing
It's not the
Staying in bed for days
Awake and then
Sleeping in few
Hour increments

(and certainly not the night I woke up at two
to the sound of the darkness
how I could hear it whispering my name
I didn't fall asleep until I saw the sun)

but
I think the funny thing
Is how even after days in bed
My every need passed over on a platter
(From six feet away)
Recovery is not a steep *****

Over a week, and I'm still hacking up phlegm
(I realize that's disgusting to picture
Trust me, tasting it is worse)

Oh, so I should be grateful
"It's not covid, so you're fine"
(Not that I got tested,
I have a sensitive nose
It bleeds very easily.
Decided it was safer to stay home)

"I'm sorry, but we have to cancel
Thanksgiving.... No, we don't think we're contagious, but we want to be sure.... Thank you for understanding!"

My sister was showing symptoms
The strep test was negative
A doctor says it was allergies

That's nice, but a 99.8
Isn't allergies

So yes
The funny thing
Is the recovery
But only because there doesn't seem to be any of it.

It has only been a week since I've been out of school.




The anxiety of being alone is getting to me.

when we first came to this land,
blood was shed for our entitlement.
when we first came to this land,
we took the things that were never ours
and trampled its native growth.
when we first came to this land,
we instilled in it a sickness that may never be cured;
we tarnished sacred lands with greed we call virtue,
and when we did so, we stood on the throat of humanity.

there are some people who are doomed to repeat history.
there are some people who will trample native growth,
spread sickness,
and stand on the throats of our people.
with the heavy weight of six centuries upon our shoulders
we stand,
a hobbled nation no longer able to stride,
heads held high,
through this sea of blood without meeting challenge.

with six centuries passed, we commit genocide anew.
it is not the native growth that suffers,
but the very peddlers of greed who are infected
by the sickness of consequence.
but they alone will not suffer.
as we march through this new iteration of history
wearing death masks instead of cloth,
thousands of innocents lose their lives
in a battle of which they were never a part.

the single day that we dedicate to gratitude,
the one day of the year some remember
to give thanks in between passing heavy dishes,
is not a commemoration of discovery.
it is a commemoration of consequence and greed.
and six centuries later,
it is our own people who we will massacre with the cry of freedom.

I remember the joy
of consuming
happiness
there is a season
for everything
this time
I will just sit out in the rain
bated breath
waiting for a change.