Time.
What of it?
What of time that rips
helpless memories
away from the present air?
Can’t you see?
-that no matter how
we glamour time we lost
as “history”,
regardless of how we count
ancient hours
as great stories splattered
across books
-still,
none of it and none of it,
will ever belong to us again?
Time gives us photograph,
too dead in black and white,
and within the inches of its
tangibility rest
the bruises left by longing.

That is time.
That is what of it.

If you ever find yourself slouched on the world’s perfect riddance
If, somehow, all the air that’s stayed with you are smokes of cigarettes
If you know that you have fallen into the hands of hell, blazing with fire,
Flickering like live wire,
Seek further down the path-
Intrude further down the core-
For there is no question,
How diamonds find derision, isolation and hell
As places to score a flawless sleep.

He smokes cigarettes to set the ocean on fire.
And before he can even dry a drop
from the salty carnival of waves,
he has already consumed most of himself.
While the ocean, the waves, all of it-
will not mourn for him no matter
how it roars of blue,
no matter how it bowls
the most ardent tears
lavishly.

I love you- too much
That my ghost shall die,
a thousand deaths,
again and again
to bury any memory that's
capable of haunting you-
to chase away the burn
that may brew my nightly visit.
I love you- too much,
That you shall never see
my shadow, my scar, my remains
even at the most obvious places.
I love you- too much
That you shall never
hear that I do, ever again.