but all is pink
and nothing is blue
except for his eyes 
his eyes are polished 
crystal
and nothing is grey
except for the thing
in the corner of the room.

his chest was the ground caving in
in a matter of seconds;
it was the streets' sudden tremors
the wall cracks
and chipped rocks.
his gaze, hauntingly sad,
it was almost inviting.
and i was a girl,
all white dress and wide eyes
not really knowing any better;
steps, too careful
walks, too slow,
tracing the faultlines
misplaced on his skin;

it was an open field —
an open target for the lightning to strike
and leave its marks
and i was just a girl,
looking for poems
where they shouldn't be found;
on the palm creases,
and the curves of his lips.
i walk,
all tentative tiptoes
and a wrong step;
falling into each hollow,
each crevice,
each slit.

he was an earthquake, waiting to happen
seismic and sudden,
taking everything down.

and i — a nameless girl,
an inkblot for face and limbs
a paramour,
a secret,
all wrapped into one.

i — a doorstep kiss,
an uncertain touch,
a bedpost notch,
all wrapped into one.

and i — a jamais vu,
a face in the crowd,
a nameless casualty,

all wrapped into one.

There were midnights when I could still tell you about my dreams. Of course, they were always about us — marvelling at the colors of the sky. With you, standing under the sun and getting lost in the afterglows and collapsing with the black holes sounded romantic. One night, I would dream about reading the books we collected together. Other nights, I would dream of kissing the tips of your lashes inside our blanket forts in terry cloth robes and Birth of Venus and Starry Night socks. Regardless, we would be up at 5 am — you with your whole bean coffee, listening to the tales authored in my sleep.

Except that in my dreams, it still feels like her instead of you. It always does. So tonight, I hope you keep yourself warm and touch the dream catcher tattoo on your nape and not think of me anymore. I know that I'm the reason for your sleepless night and memories dressed in nightmares, but tonight, I hope that you go back to sleep and no longer dream of the love I fabricated. And when it's 5 am, I hope you realize that you need something a little better than my dreams. I hope you brew your coffee to the right strength and no longer look at where I used to sit to tell you my daytime stories. So go back to sleep now. You'll be okay — without the what if's and the dreams and the happy ending written in our name. You'll be okay, darling.

You'll be okay without me.

i cold write poems about
klimt’s the kiss, soiled and stained in your garage,
how we’re all a mess of basorexia and urgent fingers,
darling, take me in your hands, i’m not gonna fall apart
like dead chrysanthemum petals.


i could write poems about long nights and long drives,
how the road had seen all those **** promises,
love, we’ll never repeat my parent’s history of falling out of love.
and yet history does rewrite itself
in different words,
different phrases,
different roads yet all the same.

i could write poems about
how you resemble the moon —
exquisite, beguiling,
and i am icarus,
all wide-eyed, all moonstruck,
all aware of the risks.

but no, darling

because as it turns out, this poem is about
the kisses planted on wrong places
and our bed, it’s filled with petals soiled by the earth.

darling, this is about us,
zipping ourselves in my parent’s skin,
oh how they lead us back to blood and bones
we’re running away from.

this is about the moon’s deceptive silver shades
and icarus,
falling,
plummeting,
crashing once more to the ground.

this poem is a mess of words
about our downfall.
this poem is a mess of words about you, darling.
a mess of words about you —
a mess of words about you gone.