it is in the way she smiles
that makes every part of me believe in the sunlight
even though i have always been clouded by darkness  
even the angels are envious of her walk
the way she flirts with gravity leaves nothing,
but footprints which make the existence of a flawless soul
i look into her brown eyes
trying to understand her thoughts
but words are could never explain
the depth of her perfection
as long as my heart beats
she will always be the reason for its rhythm
and i just hope these words
are adequate to put a smile on her face
because just the thought of her name
brings a euphoric presence to me.

I have never written a single poem
that my lovers could understand.

In truth, all my romantic verse is simple,
self-congratulatory applause

for not falling victim
to the virus of sentiment.


I am a gifted liar.

is simply to believe
that some thoughts
are so beautiful
that they could not
not be shared.

We want to see ourselves
see ourselves
because we're afraid that nobody else will
ever want to capture us
in a camera flash- so we take our own pictures.

Click. Our front camera becomes
the one minute we had hoped our fathers had for us
when he wasn't busy on that same phone, speaking,
not clicking. Without us.

Or it becomes the one minute we had hoped
that our lovers would hold us
before they settled on to someone
with more likes,
more comments,
more friends,
more happiness...
than we could ever wait for.

We are impatient
like the frequency of data on our profiles:
here are our feelings now... here
are our feelings again, five minutes later,
performing for social algorithms
in place of photographers
besides ourselves who
see ourselves.

But our ignited pixels,
and overstuffed inboxes,
and masturbatory statuses,
and glittering timelines,
and social everything-

are popularity contests
that all of us are losing.

Yet still we want to see ourselves
see ourselves
even though we are afraid
of what we know is true...

...Because what difference
is a poem to a tweet
besides the number of characters
that we wish we had to populate our own stories?

Please let us be different,
just like everyone else.

She captioned his heart like she captioned
her own pictures of herself:

seemingly profound but obvious
and unrelated to whatever
touch-screen-camera-phone-app filter she used
to unshade her blackness,
his blackness,
their blackness; with digital
skin-lightening cream.

As if to be dark was a sin.

And so she edited herself
to forgive herself.
Because Jesus had eyes the colour of her contact lenses.
Blue.

Because to be holy is to be arbitrary.
Because to caption his heart like she captioned herself
was easier than to just ask for his soul
through a no make-up selfie.

        Or whatever else she thinks is actually her,
        but still isn't.

When I put
this drink can
against my mouth,
and the liquid flows past my lips,

I am reminded
of a moment,
of a closeness,
I'm not sure I should still feel

but do.

here in this land the rain will not fall
the clouds pass us thoughtlessly
we wait and wait for rain endlessly

Run away my pale sister
Sink safely below the rim
Else my rays will burn your face
As my strength explodes over the earth

But, then savor these minutes
When we share the sky
And your lovely illumination
Yields always to my blaze.

And through the day
As I burn the landscape
I forget you, until,
You appear again, behind me.

Hard and soft, hard and soft
Warm and cool, warm and cool
We soak this planet in our own cycle
Using the same light. Mine!