You won't run,
But you can't promise to stay,
We won't know if this feeling will fade away,
We spoke and we lay,
In the darkness of the day,
Arms and legs tangled,
As time passes away.

space closes, time passes
seasons change, bringing inevitable difference with them.
as years draw by and sketch new lines on your face
I face the reality that,
one day, everyone will age.
from the moment you are born, you are already dying
life sends diseases of the mind and body to weaken you.
nobody is spared.
that's why so many are drawn to stories of death and despair
because we know it is right under our noses,
around every street corner,
behind every sunny spot, a shadow.
is it beautiful? ironically.
but is this really the way to live fulfilled? happily?
I have no answers,
I guess we'll just have to see

I never liked poems,
Boring things in English textbooks,
Boring to read,
Twisted verses,
Something I could not feed,
My brain,
But since I tried to write in vain,
Now to me a poem,
Crafted by me,
Is my totem,
It traps my insecurity,
A sacred gem,
It's written beauty,
Maybe I liked it,
Because it's something,
I could do from my heart,
Something I can turn to,
To build words,
Out of the blue.

Piecing together a story with timestamps
from letters you published, and
clues raining down like hammers,
(which is to say, at first dangerous, and then
amnesia-inducing, leaving me certain
I was delirious all along)

you asked me “what kind of person are you?”
and I hesitantly shrugged,
“whatever kind you need me to be, if only
I can.” If only
I can.

I can be a mirror,
a reflection,
a deflection,
a misdirection,
an inter-introspection
asking only what has already
been asked before, rapid-fire
and firing faster, until it shatters
like
“what kind of person are you?”
and
“what do you see when you look at me?”
and
"how can you see what's looking at you,
if you didn't first know to look to see?”
and
"what if we run out of things to say
or questions to ask?”
and
“how many bites does it take
to get to the centre of a person?”
and
"if I promise there's no venom in my fangs
could I bite into you?”
and
I wonder what you taste like.

What is it that stops us from questioning
the scaffolding of our reality?
Why aren't more of us solipsists?
Shouldn't we all be like those
delusional violent ones?

They see no reason
to think the world exists
outside their heads
Therefore their thoughts influence
their reality more and more

All of our thoughts
influence the reality
We sense to a varying degree
unique to each of us

But do we really all, for the most part
believe some **-hum passivity?
Oh, what pressures magnetize our brains