There came a time when I realized the river flowed outwards
The west became Sahara and east Bombay.
The golden chops grinned in greed.
My lips were full in windy cold winter,
and you became hoarding supply-less supply.

what’s the law of flight
when do we walk on the sky
when does a feather bloom like cupid wing
bow in hand trying to set a good impression
only to face moons alone at night

i thought i shot for me but i guess i shot for them
who will strike me with their arrow
when does a bow become a boomerang
is the ocean really a river
am i only a bridge

meet me on common ground,
with a feather & tool of shade in hand
while the birds sync in parallel mind.

let the universe whisper
sweet nothings between our skin.
let the brown flesh merge
like water and land.

may our bodies be a field
of poppies as we dream of once again...

i feel like a pine tree
jazz dancing in my roots
body of bark
branches of composite
savor
leaves of creation

the wind blows like a hurricane
though im rooted in the ground
my conifer lie in silence awaiting...

it was on a windy day
the book dismembered on cobblestone
pages whipping in the sky
yet the sun shined bright

they’re in a place of lost hopes,
silent drums on weekday vacation,
in rooms full to the brim,
oozing tar,
nightmares on sunny days.

palms mismatched like large and small.
we breathe on different intervals,
you have never seen yourself like me.
i don’t like what i see.

warm wind tunnels full of water lilies,
filling my cottage with fumes of nature,
fresh baked goods prepared in my kitchen,
the hum of inaudible voices echo through thick log walls,
silence fills this place as my phone dings in the far corner,
the smell of flowers and warm cookies fills the house,

gripping onto wood and string,
pressing and strumming as the peaceful vibrations fill the house,
I sea the occasional passing car as it shakes the entire house,
distant sirens exit and enter my ears,

I fill at home in this stillness,
another ding comes from my phone in the corner,
I walk into my kitchen and pour a cup of tea,
raw honey,

the table is stacked with board games,
the game system sits in the corner,
another ding,
succulents fill the shelves,

it is peaceful, hear...

what is solitude?
a cocoon of iridescent
paintings of oil on bulletproof walls
mama’s warm embrace in fetal form

a prison of darkness
where no one knows your face
where reflections are only imagined
where hands are far from reach
and reality is...

a place where beauty is created
creation is sentence
and sentence is desolation

childbed