folded my fingers into shapes  
they didn’t resemble birds  
but I imagined flight anyway  
you scribbled something on napkins  
left them in the glove box  
that car is someone else’s now  
but I still reach for it  
like memory has a latch

the basement was a place  
not sacred, just echo-heavy  
we taped pieces of ourselves  
to the walls  
and screamed  
not for help  
but to hear the echo  
then acted like it wasn’t us

I made a compass  
out of whatever was left  
it spins  
I spin  
there’s no north  
just motion

I’m still tracing maps  
they don’t have names  
the house doesn’t have a floor  
I keep climbing out of myself  
trying to feel  
something  
anything  
these words don’t answer  
but they’re all I have  
I’m sorry  
I broke it  
I didn’t know what it was

we chased something  
light maybe  
with jars  
it slipped out  
your voice didn’t hold  
it cracked  
under everything we carried

I counted the ceiling  
not the tiles  
just the breaks  
thought maybe  
if I touched enough  
it would explain itself  
but it didn’t  
and the silence  
was louder than the cracks

I tied string to memory  
but it didn’t hold  
the knots  
unraveled  
like everything else

still tracing  
still no names  
still no end  
I tried to redraw the sky  
but it stayed  
unmoved  
these lines  
are all I can give  
they shake  
I shake  
I’m sorry  
I lost it  
I thought I could protect it

this isn’t healing  
it’s just movement  
falling  
forward  
out of whatever I thought  
would catch me  
the glass broke  
but your face stayed  
framed  
by something  
I can’t name

we are  
maps  
hearts  
lines  
none of them finished  
but we try  
we try  
we try  
again

We’re told that we would
be able to connect with myriads of people
in the course of life, until we find out
that few true connection comes.
It’s so meaningful to connect
with someone who interprets you so accurately.

I have so much of you in my heart, quoted from John Keats.
I see you in the back of my head.

Thank you for your presence at the mortifying ordeal
of being known
so that I may partake in the euphoric experience
of knowing you.
Grown up, I realize that
there really isn’t anybody to whom i can tell everything
and there never will be,
and there are certain things not supposed to be told,
and that’s just how it is.

If we vibe, we vibe.

for reasons unknown to me,
the urgent need to commence
this one with the words:

Oh man,

this is, this be, challenging,
but these words were found on the drying rack in my
abattoir, my nickname for my unending Draft Day
filings

and kept poking despite another overnight splash,
the product pool is full of creativity's synaptic junctions,
a wild night of up~writing, from god knows when,
and here it is 7:18, there are obligations, needs that
a demand a face to face meeting, tho the troops are
in their boarded beds, gently snoring…

                      so quick, to the sizable task at hand

the search is perpetual, not eternal,
for no one comes forward, willing
to admit, they have been around
since King David's time, practicing
this verbal chicanery game of using
words to guide the perplexed, unless,
of course, unless someone you might
know might be a big fat fibber

right about now, you're exasperatingly seething,
"where the heck is a poem gonna show its face?"

     well, and now,
     some struggle mightily, to ascertain
     who and what is their uniqueness,
     oft turned and twisted, caught between
          competing entities, asking quests that
           take lifetimes to resolute, and when
           you look at the typewriter roll silently
           choking the white cloud surrounding it,
          you, you want to cry/pray out aloud, who, who

shall I be, to make a completion between
the person inside of me. the person I think
                   I want to be, dream of be-coming,

and yes it is too, eternal, for as long as humans
can think dream, create and anticipate, we all
will nonetheless perpetually search for the other
someone, sometwo
in us…

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5156835/three-things/
(a poem of presence)

I could be your echo,
soft and steady,
a voice to lean against
when your own feels tangled.
We’d sit with the mess,
name the knots,
and breathe through the “what now?”
No fixing - just listening
until the fog thins.

I could take one thing,
just one,
from your crowded shelf of “later.”
Sort the papers,
fetch the milk,
untangle the tech that won’t behave.
You rest.
I’ll be your hands for a while.

I could make you a pocket of peace:
a walk, a poem,
a playlist that hums (like your favourite socks).
No agenda, just joy.
Just the reminder
that you are allowed to feel good
for no reason at all.
And if you’d like,
I’ll hold your name in prayer,
not as a fix,
but as a quiet flame.
A breath. A whisper.
A way to say:
you are not alone.

Your battles rage, and I see what scars scratch your skin; I see the weight you bear, your heart is a battlefield with unending spar.

In essence,
Distance gives you the view of their landscape;

Illuminating,
We glimpse our true selves through the reflections of others, like mirrors to the soul.

Like their garden, occupied by substance—what withers; mirrors they appear themselves a guard and here I stand, in all my form, a 'lookout' may seemingly.

World is as vast,
My worries small.
Who am i?
Im just passing through; a tourist from a distance.

I take a peso
in a wallet
And toss it
in the well
I whisper slowly
in the side of
and wish a night with you,
instead

So i,
I seek the crowd,
youre standing.
You turn around,
i was hiding,
barely breathing
evaporating,
gasping,
left on oxygen

and so i think
of breaking the glass
and break my silence
But i dont want
you to notice me
Of violence

and so,
I gasp again
and walk away

So im writing to you
Instead,
Knowing this was just
a methaphor
of how badly
I want to reach out
and talk to you

Again.

One petal fell, the other rose from the ground.
But the timing was precise.
Something hid the linings from the petal
to manipulate its falling, but who was it?
No one saw or heard. They said the petal was too sensitive, it fell on its own,
but why was the petal sensitive?
Why was the petal in the wrong for falling?
But the falling had its meaning, a reason, that made it the petals hope not to fall alone, it had a reason to hide, but not the fall?
Will anyone see? Will anyone hear?
Why would they never understand?
It's small and fragile, but if it can fall on its own, can it fall by a throw
Who did it? Who left unscathed?
Who laughed? Who caved?
The petal saw someone, who was it?
The one who rose,
It rose after throwing someone's dream, leaving them in pieces, and no one saw true..
They just said, '' one petal fell, the other rose.

what do they write for me?
in the sky?
what do they have for me?
in their eyes?
where do i belong?
far by the gods and galaxies,
do i belong?
will i ?