My admiration almost pernicious
Continuing to grow like mold
My fondness portrays as vicious
Though i promise it's pure like gold
I'll stay besotted towards you
As i grow withered and old
In your soul i found my moira
Our future is foretold

i wanted to write like josé olivarez,
to love, plain and simple, and to let
the light in, shamelessly, for all to see

but she wanted a t.s. eliot, maybe a surrealist
portrait, or a picasso to my pissarro, and a tiptoe
around the elephants, for a look into me, endlessly

as if always in search of some deeper, divine meaning,
we parted our ways, but now i no longer feel like me
i have lost my rhythm, though i have not stopped reading

i fall into ignorance; i am called out for perfunctories; so
other than a casual fear of forevers, i now also know: my love
tastes like cheap prose, and an atrophied fondness of writing

Away on a short but long trip into pain
my absence brought
a keen yearning for our union
so now we touch
I breathe in your aroma
my heart throbs with joy
and gratitude
for this rich vibrant presence.

i write too many poems for you
ones i assure you don't know of
and you won't even read it
for the existence is beyond your knowledge

i write too many poems for you
ones i can't even read
it's just so hard to believe
that it's all about the same thing

i write too many poems for you
ones my hands just type without cue
how i mindlessly formulate it
in all honesty, i have no clue

i write too many poems for you
at one point i wish you knew
but I'm contented that you don't
for i know nothing would change

i write too many poems for you
but we're not on the same line
nor on the same stanza
neither in the same poem

i write too many poems for you
but it's time to stop now
it's tiring, don't you think?
to write, without a reader.

he is the moon that shines down on me when i'm lost in the labyrinth of a cornfield at one in the morning

and he is the sun that peeks behind the clouds after a misty afternoon spent studying at the local library

he is the sand that shifts under the sea in the wake of a creature rising up from a good afternoon slumber

and he is the sky that envelopes the world in a palette of colors that reminds us of the passage of time and time again

he is a house built on love and passion with pillars that shake but never break as the earth falters and cries

and he is the horizon that paints my perspective a burning flame the intensity of a wildfire nobody in the vicinity foretold

he is the breeze that greets me on the balcony as i laugh with strangers that assure me i am doing just fine

and he is the moment of being half-asleep when i mumble my words in response to my mother who kisses my cheek

he is the lexicon of forbidden words that i store behind the door at the back of my heart which beats once in a while

and he is the silence that infiltrates the damp mood but also gives me a draft on which i ink the first beats of a song

Everything I've had
Nothing to compare
You think you understand
Zero comprehension
One day
Or night
You'll realise
Too much pressure
Purity overload
Forever is an understatement
Once in an existence
Cogs that can only turn each other
None before
None after
Everything and nothingness
Speed of light
Heaviness beyond weight
Unable to find
Will never lose
Vows meaningless
Words exempt
Clarity withal
Within
Without
Ying v yang
Noun; very strong liking
Affection
Appreciation
Devotion
Emotion
Fondness
Friendshi­p
Infatuation
Lust
Passion
Respect
Yearning
The whole caboodle
Love. You.