And there are people
who don't want
to be remembered
even for what
they’re good at
They want to fade away
like they never existed

i’m sorry i let you down.
i should go now anyway.
don’t be alarmed if you never see me again.
this will be my last mistake.
if you notice anyway

Summer ice box, bolted to the block like a hustler’s ambition.
King of the corner. Hand to hand to every family man or,
A fiends fever dream. Metal mattress for the meek.
Chill spot on the streets,
For a late-night congregation of labeled freaks;
To people passing by at least.
Neighborhood staple. A practicing painters graffiti canvas.
Crowned with empty coffee cups turned bank accounts for the beggar.
Bent from stray bullets, but never broken.
Stalwart, abandoned bodegas
But the ice box remains.
The signature of a city that speeds away, but
Will never change.

Well, what did I expect?

How am I remembering you so clearly?
What your voice sounds like,
Your fragrance,
Your hair that I used to cares it in-between my fingers,
Your palms running down my waist as if you're shaping like clay,
How you'd smile in different occasions.

How am I remembering all the little things about you so clearly,
Yet I have forgotten how much I loved you;

I have forgotten my reason why I started to remember every detail of you.

I can't recall how I felt about you.

Was it the crook in my neck,
Or the tension in my back
That set me off course
To start the day?

Was it my sore feet,
Or the dust in my lungs
That sparked a thread
Of anger inside me?

Was it, perhaps,
A dream I had forgotten
Before my eyes blinked awake?
I could feel my heart racing…

The stars seem more dull,
The sky, a tinge more grey,
My step with less motivation,
And mind, less patient.

I’m missing something
That I don’t remember now,
But I feel it when the wind
Runs around my neck.

You can see the goosebumps emerge,
And a sigh of relief push out
With a moment of tilting back my head
And eyes closed.

Today, I’m missing something
That I’ve forgotten,
But I miss it now more than ever;
Can I make it stop?

after death
is there anything
but the soft patter
of the kitten's paws
against kitchen tiles
searching for its owner

is there anything
but the children
who run across the playground laughing
unknowing of what awaits them
what overturned tables
what fogged car mirrors

is there anything
but the memories
falling like gentle snow
across graveyards and families
who will be there someday
forgotten as well

is there anything
but silence in the unloved
early hours of the morning
as the stars blink
out one by one
finally above the weather