i slept in the arms of cities
with no names,
listened to taxis like lullabies
while the moon
pushed its hips against my window.

I've whispered in playful minds,

Brilliant people of all kinds.

I whisper then vanish,

sometimes odd and outlandish.

I never truly end,

just many others to attend...

I like to dream about you
The way your kisses taste so sweet
I like to dream about you
The way you breathe when you feel the heat

I like to dream I can hold you
From sunset till the morning light
I like to dream I can hold you
Nothing else seems so right

And in my dreams, I see you
As I look into your eyes
And in my dreams when I see you
I can see sparks as they fly

I like to dream about you
About the things you do
I like to dream about you
I know they will come true

In my dreams you are an angel
White lights and everything
In my dreams you are my angel
Prettiest one I’ve ever seen

Tread lightly
as you walk through the summer of my dreams,
do not crush the grass
with the weight and banality of your reality
or bring cold facts which fall as rain
to shatter every fragrant bloom,
let me sit in peace,
safe within my flowered room,
I know beyond the wall
the world is calling harsh,
soon enough the gate will open,
but for now the bolt is holding
do not break it down,
or try to climb the fence
let me have my garden
in this place I am content

आयुष्याच्या प्रत्येक टप्प्यावर
चढण्याची केली घाई,
कुठे हरवला आनंद माझा
मलाच कळालं नाही.

स्वप्नं मोठी, इच्छा जास्त –
पण मेहनत केली नाही,
कुठे हरवला आनंद माझा
मलाच कळालं नाही.

सर्वांनी मला सावध केलेले,
पण मी लक्ष दिलं नाही,
कुठे हरवला आनंद माझा
मलाच कळालं नाही.

मेहनतीशिवाय मार्ग मला
कोणताच दिसत नाही,
हरवलेला आनंद माझा
मी पुन्हा शोधत राही.

I write as a lover, before the storm.
The wolf pup in winter, seeking the warmth.
I write in a theatre made up of dreams.
Walking the tightrope, of my tensioned feelings.

Believing the gravity serves as my foe,
to bring me to earth, abandon my hope,
A pessimist calling.
I leave it a note.

I sing as the sibling, to decorate lives.
To wrap up those present, greet who arrive.
And each day is christmas, when siblings celebrate,
together they dine in the feast they create.

I work as the father, to wisen my hands.
To cultivate friendship with life and with land.

I love it regardless, this life that we have.

There’s a voice in my head
haunting me—
pulling at the seams of my reservation.

In this forest, it calls—
soft and distant,
waiting for me to walk deeper into the hush.
In this white dress, the grass blades cut my ankles,
vines wrap around the autumn trees,
luring me farther in.

It calls whenever it wants,
wherever it wants—
patiently waiting to hold me in its grasp.

I stand beneath a towering tree,
feet bleeding into the earth,
the sky swallowed in rust and gold.

Looking far and wide,
only the vastness of forest meets my eyes.
Even as I run,
there’s only a sea of fallen leaves.

I feel the wind against my skin.
The back of my neck tingles
from a touch I cannot see.
It doesn’t hold me physically—
but I feel its grasp,
spirit-deep.

Whatever it is,
it wants to be found by me.

So I keep running—
not to escape,
but to chase the feeling of fleeing.
Letting the wind lift my hair from my face
as the sun’s light begins to fade.

Still, the forest keeps calling.
Whatever I have left—
let it be swept away by the autumn wind.


- N.V. 🥀

I stumbled upon Descanso gardens last December. Felt neck hairs stand at intention. Wishes of the past linger unfulfilled like paralyzed dreams never to be awakened into life.  Fear of replacing the one impossibly interchangeable part of the story I wish be left forgotten.

We met for early dinner. He’s holding out for better and I’m so turned on. We walk the street for ice cream, only to decide I shouldn’t.

I keep my left hand in my pocket. Distantly, I think of getting pizza by the slice with you and suddenly I’m not hungry. He doesn’t like pepperoni.

I love his paintings. He’s an artist, too. I can’t, I won’t take him to the Getty. I want to feel all of him but I don’t want to hold his hand.
Damp blankets call him home to dry. Turning away as the sun sets, I stare at the dirt in front of me, so I know where I stand, present.

You aren’t there. I glance up at the night sky and look away. No more wishing on scars. A shrouded memory of a daydream I once had haunts today I wanted to have just before I woke to the life you never were.

I’m going to the Getty in the morning. Maybe I’ll bring flowers just in case. Or maybe a camera to take photos I will never want to see. Maybe I should just stay in bed and dream a life you’re still there.

Yellow tulips and Rembrandt long your cold piercing stare. We have a date tomorrow at the Getty, it will be lovely so long not to bestir. Bring your favorite pen, as to draw the best of intentions quietly running the palate of my cheek splattered about a cold white marble floor of permeating bitterness. Peering through windows unto the imagination of immortals, bright white fades to nothing

****** be the light of dawn
Now, in step…
Symphonic daydreams tread a measure
Twisted ankles, we graciously fall.