It’s evident that the person I thought you were exists entirely in my memory, on that comfortable blue couch in your old temporary apartment - 160 Morton, I still remember the address from when you bought 50 dollars worth of subway for delivery on your dads card because the 6 frozen pizzas you had bought on the monday weren’t enough to last you a week.

The person I thought you were exists only on the second floor of the empty arts building, dancing and singing, on the picnic bench where I told you that you didn’t realize the effect you had on people, in that small campus and our trips to the nearby cities where we confided in each other and you sought my advice, i sought your comfort and the warmth of your hand gripping my shoulder when it was evident my own hands quivered and trembled.

It’s evident that the person I thought you were exists merely in my memory - but that isn’t entirely fair to you, I guess. You’ve always been better lying on the couch, head in my lap, than answering your messages, weeks old and still unread.

But still - does it hurt that much to even pretend you still care about me?

(7 separate messages. It’s been a week. Only when I confront you do you apologize, tell me that you’ve been having a bad time.)

(Explanation. Excuse. Explanation, not excuse. I thought we agreed on this.)

My memory erases the blemishes on our record, the bad moments - a relapse, anger, your hands on her thighs, lounging on the beach yet still asking me to watch your shoes.

Why can’t I be the ******* for once? It’s that emotion again, tenfold but dulled. I’m not angry, just disappointed. Maybe both. I don’t know. I never know when it comes to you.

I remembered the day I cried as I wrote. Good will, and love.
I left the last pieces of what would have been my love for you on those pages.
To have been replaced with simple friendship.

The night I sealed the letter I heard from a friend
All the horrendous, hurtful things you’ve said.
The misguided pain and the refusal to understand.
But I get it. You always were selfish about your feelings.

The day you gave the letter back I remembered
How you scorned your best friend for looking out for me
How you told me I could control my feelings
And that I should have given up my happiness for you.

How many times have I done exactly that?

You tell me I can tell you anything and yet you tell me to begone when I try

I look back at every single girl you’ve ever called a ***** because she rejected you, or that she wouldn’t let you **** her.

I really didn’t know you. And I ignored the signs.

And it took me so many drinks and so many cuts to realise.... But now I see you never loved me.

I was a toy to you. A prize. I was there to help you fluff your feather pillows and I was an *** you could grab at any time.

If you loved me, you would have understood.

I lost my self worth to you and you were selfish enough to never give it back. Humiliated and destroyed. Alone and afraid.

Didn’t you say you wanted me to feel the same pain you did? Maim me and destroy what you once held so dearly? If you knew me at all. You would know I already did. But you were too selfish to care.

Congratulations.

I hope you’re proud of your victory.

Go and tell your friends about this now.

I am but a rose of beginning green,*
imprisoned to darkness all day,
within a monumental fiend,
who covers up the radiance that I want to give away

Occasionally a small opening would be sewn
into the darkness' fiery grasp
and your pure radiance could be shown
concealed in a kindhearted mask

Share your light with me
and for you I will light the way
wrapped in an unfamiliar livery
prepared for our intimacy till the end of our days

We will cross waters on a homebound stretch
and become fuel for our endurance,
so beautifully etched

I'll take my chances, following the sun
the garden we grow
means that together, we are one

Share your light with me,
and forever I will stay.
my petals can become your livery
we need each other, I daresay.

It's a hot day.
in mid-december.
What the **** is this.

I expected cold
That's what I came to Taiwan for.
i guess the world had other plans.
******* hell.

What am i doing?

I'm watching the old ladies run about
with the old men
Strings of coral and jade
around their frail wrists
And pocketfuls of money
i will probably never see

There's another old lady
carrying boxes of food
selling lunch to the loud jewellery sellers.
she's seen better days,
But she looks happy.
at least i hope she is.

The chestnut girl isn't here today.
i hope she is, though.
she's cheery all the time.
i need a bit of cheer in my life.

My parents have left me alone.
how the hell do i run this booth
i hope nobody comes to ask me for anything
even if i should hope they do.
we haven't made anything in weeks.

The jade market is loud
and the smell of sandalwood incense and rotting nails lingers
like when i accidentally cook too much pork
with an inadequate amount of onions and salt
and the smell assaults my apartment.

I wish you were here.
you would love the chaos.

Four hours
Before I have to leave.
I remember your lips,
Planting kiss after parting kiss
On mine.

Two hours
Before I have to leave.
I remember your hands
Holding mine, but slowly letting go
As I pass through the boarding gate.

Thirty minutes
Before I have to leave.
I remember every single moment,
Every laugh, every "I love you",
Turning into a fading, yet fresh
Wisp of memory.

Thirty seconds
Before I have to leave.
I remember you  

Don't worry, my love.
I'll let you know when I'm on the other side.
I love you.

I went to a flea market today
And between the stalls peddling jade
Antique swords
And old Japanese plastic toys,
I found a box of photographs
Forgotten by time

I picked up the photographs one by one
And in each of them I saw countless stories.
1940's Taiwan.
1920's Japan.
A couple.
A group of men.
A rice field.

I watched the smiling faces and the wide, vacant grins and wondered,
'Who are they?
'Where did they go?
'Who did they go home to?
'Where are they now?'

I looked at the photographs and saw us.
Happy. Content.
Unfettered by the passage of time.
Unaware that one day, we'll be nothing, or everything.
Uncaring about how short and how eternally slow life can be.

I look at us and wonder,
'Will anyone remember us, fifty years from now?
'Will anyone care what happened to us?
'Will we simply be, sixty years from now, old photographs in box in a ***** flea market?'
I found no answers to my questions.
I doubt I ever will.



I went to a flea market today.
But that's all in the past now.




I put the photographs back in the box.

Lorenzo

The name spills from my lips,
Like wine-
And stains my hands.

LoRENzo

A brand on my chest.
A tattoo on my neck-
Where his tongue traced constellations.

Lo-ren-zo

The name lingers in my blood
Like a narcotic
And in the air
Like ***.

I'm hooked.

Addicted.

Lorenzo.

Lorenzo.

Lorenzo.