i cannot seem to form sentences or coherent paragraphs
anymore. my words crash upon each other like waves, only
to crack and fall apart like the earth under our feet. they
stop and go, start and repeat. you took everything of me but
my trembling hands and so i am left to write, or at least
i try; through brokenness so jarring, pale and numb.

alphabets are meaningless. twenty-six letters do not add up
to the way you make everything better and worse, and this
language cannot solve us; none can. i speak three to your two
and yet there are no phrases or similes or metaphors that come
close; sun, moon, stars and all. i only mourn what we could have
had, the possibilities were infinite and of all the endings, here we are.

when words could still flow, i wrote you letters in your absence;
how of all the people possible, you chose me. how years and months
and days of waiting left us stranded and further from each other than
ever before. but you read and will read none, this is certain now.
perhaps forever is certain too, the skin you left me in is hollow.

i want to tell you so much, but i have forgotten
how to speak. i want to write to you, but i have no way to
tell you everything that matters. i forget to form poetry
and prose. a reverse dementia, in which i forget everything
from the beginning except you. maybe we were meant to break,
humans are fragile beings. i love you. i hate you. i miss you.

words fail me, but i can't forget.

(A.H.Z)

and the country she still grows;
vertical, nocturnal,
imprints of the west, traditions in the east
her shores kissing the south china sea.

dad would return smelling of nicotine and smoke,
the streets a permanent stain in his sandpaper skin.
i have been taught to sing in place of speaking;
spouting symphonies, instead of plain words.

in summer the water and ocean calls
chlorine and salt seeping into every pore;
i watched sunlight penetrate the depths,
shimmering; tried to bathe in the warmth i saw.

in winter, mom named us dragons
breathing ice in place of fire; cloud breaths, frosted glass.
rainbows formed our skyline, the buildings iridescent
in those days, santa still waved from the windows.

first drink at four and coffee from seven
we ran and still run -
red lights for the sake of races.
the law was a sewing my father calmly weaved through
tradition, he called it. i grew up in the town he did too.

i am a child of the harbour and sea
the wind in my hair, hands in the breeze
family and city unorthodox, belonging;
the pulse of my heart.

(A.H.Z)