I'm glad I never met your face;
I'm glad  you're far from home;
I'm glad our meetings never came,
so I could cry in bed alone.

I'm glad our worlds were not the same;
I'm glad we  had our different zones;
Of time and space; of heart and mind—
of suffering—all which is my own.

For if we met, and found each other
Mapped every corner, bend, and contour,
I'd find I'd regret the day that I met you,
since seeing you would've hurt me more.

Even if her soul was as dark as an explosion of ash, or the darkest shine of an obsidian from the embers of liquid flames. There is still a universe I am searching within her, and she's slowly burning me, and I am fine with that.

Or maybe, the only star I find within her was the sun, and I am one of the planets she's going to slowly destroy.  I would've been fine if I had not known what love was. Content with the distance between us, which was a sea of galaxies only shooting stars seemed to cross.

I was given wings of wax to cross that pain, and to stick her back to the sky once more, to see that sun one more time. Even if I had been falling once--or more than a million times--just for the sake of one person. My wings would've been nothing more, if I had not met her to see her back in the sky. Even if it was to say our last goodbye.

If only words could reach down
below the skin, I could be the one you hear.

But of course, you can't hear anything
when I'm covering your ears.

I guess we’re a bit distant now
And somehow, it weirds me out
We’re not so usually far apart
But now you’re filling me with doubt

I find the red string that binds us
slowly fades into a shade
Because we don’t seem to find a path
to make the both of us stay

And I guess I’m lonely now
maybe too hard to be found
I’m a plane flying to nowhere,
searching for solid ground
I’m a missing puzzle piece,
crying underneath the couch
I can see you piece others,
but you can’t seem to find me out.

I’m lonely underneath the sky,
wandering with no goal in mind
imagining laughter in the air
hoping I haven’t left you behind.

I hope of many things that I know
I didn’t want to happen or do
But I’m crying because I know now
I will never be this close to you.

And I guess I’m lonely now
maybe too hard to be found
I’m a plane flying to nowhere,
searching for solid ground
I’m a missing puzzle piece,
crying underneath the couch
I can see you piece others,
but you can’t seem to find me out.

Hey, I'm sorry
For not telling  you beforehand
I'm sorry
If I somehow make a mistake
I'm sorry
If I somehow hurt you again
I'm sorry
If I keep on loving you

But, you don't have to forgive me.

For all the sake of confinement,
and rules, and laws, and all that is in motion,
my heart rattles in its cage and roars
like a beast, defying human nature.
In a matter of a second,
I succumb to fury. I am rage
juxtaposed to a calm face.
I wail and tear apart the truth,
limb by limb, for denial paves way
to the entrance of my home.

It lives with me, dines with me, sleeps with me;
a welcome resident within my haven.
For when you live through the ways of love,
and love in spite, (instead of loving for the sake
of loving yourself) only to be loved
because of your monetary value and
the vanity gracefully done on your face,
betrayal is strong and denial is natural.

For all the sake of confinement,
and rules, and laws, and all that is in motion,
even in most literature, we see,
only these people come to know love.

On the other hand,
when you are loved despite not having
money, looks, power, and influence,
they tell us it is blind, and sad.
Because our faces are not on LED screens,
and news outlets, or tabloids, or
made into a film adaptations,
in comparison, our love
is fleeting, and non-existent.

For all the sake of confinement,
and rules, and laws, and all that is in motion,
even in the love we see from those around us,
we are also told this is where love is, or where
it can never be found.

So beauty or no beauty; money or no money,
power or no power; some will never be loved and some will still be loved. As human as it is for us to deny, it is natural as well,
for human beings to defy and change and have different capacities to be loved.

So, love as if no screen can ever behold its depth.

In the course of the world's creation,
I've seen you somewhere, or everywhere, all at once.  

You mapped the stars by my side, when I didn't know where they were or what they were named.

You told me about fascinating little things that walked and lived, and breathed, with such enthusiasm, I began to learn that they existed with such amazement.

You formed nonsense of words, so ridiculous, you  made me question the peak of human intelligence.

You showed me gestures so small, or words that required no enunciation, I learned how silence spoke louder than our words.

You taught me so much, that eventually, I knew the feeling inside of me that grew in my chest, I no longer needed your assistance to name such.

Somewhere, everywhere, all at once, you were in the course of the world's creation.

The moment I took notice, the world stopped revolving.

And in that moment, it was just you and I.

The tips of her lashes
were silver like rainfall,
and her hair was the sea at night,
her flesh was the clouds
obscuring the warmth of the sun,
and her teeth were the glinting knives.

No obsidian dark
could outshine her eyes,
and her words were a painful storm.
The more she breathed,
a new star awoke,
and in the darkness, I grew forlorn.

And I told him, Ivan, don’t shout.
And he did, and he couldn’t hear me;
he was too busy, leaning over the edge,
teetering on the point of immortality—
on the edge, on the edge, on the edge.
He’s still there.

Then, is it okay to cry enough?
Isn’t it okay to keep helping him?
Or am I too stupid to believe—
“Ivan, please stay. Please don’t go”—
that he would stay, even after I’m gone?

Because, I still cried, even when I left him first.
Because I didn’t want to stay to see him leave me,
and is love okay this way?
Is this what love for me supposed to be?
Am I really that naive to have believed its lies?

I left. But I can’t help but feel that I’m the one who lied.

We fill them with love, and love, and love—

then they are filled with love to share with someone else.

The words are not the same anymore,
wrapped in meanings that are concepts far
beyond my eyes, that fall upon my lips,
empty and bitter and fading.

My poems are like foreign aspects of my life now,
disappearing under my finger tips without further
notice, kneaded into the paper under my palms
and leaving me slowly, dreadfully, painfully.

Who am I now, that my voice has waned?
That the moon on my tongue no longer revolves,
with the earth and the sun, left trap in a desolate darkness
filled with brighter supernovas, and wanton galaxies.

Who am I now?
That the thread of my being has frayed,
and slipped, and weaved, through the contours of the universe,
as I slip easily through the cracks without being chased;
without being noticed (and I regret and regret, and regret, because I wish that they had).

Who are we, now that I'm gone,
and that you've gone with another? That you've followed
in their footsteps, left me, with one foot entering my grave?
With a rough necklace dangling across my collar? With silver lining your eyes, and with an exuberance that comes with letting go?

What are we now, that my poems no longer hold the essence of me,
as it remains to long for you? What are we, that we no longer hold what was once dear for us? What are we now, that the physical form of who I am remains to fade alongside your death? What are we, when all that remains of our past selves are gone?

Who are you?

The higher curl of the other end of her lip. The exasperation present in her eyes. The small sound of her snort as she looked away.

He loved that look so much.

God, he loved it.

And it was so unfortunate, that it was only now that he was admiring it. Only now that he was loving it, for the last time.

He took a breath.

She didn’t.

“You say so little, to nothing. Why are you so quiet?” He asks.

Before she can even answer, he presses his lips against her’s, stopping her from speaking.

In the height of a wave,
In the peak of a storm,
In the quiet of a moment,
In the heart that was torn;
Lay a moment of such wonder,
Lay a moment so profound,
Lay a moment so somber,
Lay a man in the ground;
People say that he was drunk,
People say that he was lost,
People say that he was kind,
People say that he was rough;
They whispered he had hurt,
They whispered he had God,
They whispered he had sinned,
They whispered he had none;
But it did not change the man,
It did not change the dead,
It did not change he loved,
It did not change how we would end.

I've seen the same roads,
those that lead nowhere
or cut into an end here,
reaching the edge of a mountain,
or to the lip of the sea,
or fading off into dust
and growing darker into
grainy asphalt—
that somehow hurts.

The roads straighten and curve,
and stretch and narrow,
and bend and break,
and crack just as it is filled
in between the seems.
They intertwine,
and meet in the middle,
and lead off somewhere,
like the t-boning of a barelling car,
going 40 on a 25.

The saddest roads are always short,
yet seeming endless in a moment
of brief contact.
The same speed,
the same view, and the same
edge by the sea, passing like
two stray boats at night.
The loneliest roads are parallel;
equal in distance, that can never touch. Side by side in meeting,
and always apart when leaving.

The loneliest roads taper off,
and stare at emptiness.
Paralell roads never meet,
and will always stay the same.

The loneliest roads between us
are just a few feet apart—
always infinite miles away.

I cried again, at the thought of her
in between all the drifting stars.
I cried again, at the thought of her
in between my throbbing scars.

I asked my papa, when it'd leave
when my pain would finally stop,
but he shook his head in reprieve,
and from his mouth came a cough,

"It never leaves, only dulls,
never hardens, but never is the same;
you're my daughter, my only daughter,
you and I, we share a pain."

Mama, I cried, at the thought of her,
especially on the day when I left;
I came back into your loving arms,
and from my mouth, I finally wept.

His finely-tailored suit
contrasts the callouses of his hands.
His combed dark hair
hides the darkness in his eyes.
His steps the shadows of the underbrush
does not decide whether he is there or not.
His unnerving silence
speaks of the battle of an ongoing conversation.

However of a dichotomy he might be,
he is the same man.
The same kind.
Same impostor.
Same boy
with the same lies.
For we are all the same,
with tailored suits,
when we have something to hide.

There are monsters that live to ****
Some whose rolls they cannot fill
But faces do not look the same
Just like monsters with different names

But don’t confuse a hero with a sword
Swords are weapons they can only afford
And don’t confuse monsters with blood
They’re only people deprived of love

So don’t laugh when you don’t know their pain
Don’t talk or they’ll think you’re insane
You live for people you want to protect
And there are people who live to see you dead.

Our love will never be a thing of today or tomorrow, but it will always be there. It exists, and blooms first thing in the morning, but even if you don't find it, it is there. Only, it is asleep, and you wake up, only if it matters.  

Some days, I wake up with a hole in my chest, some days, I wake up with my chest filled with too much, that it hurts beyond words. Do I burst with joy? Burst with ire? Or burst into red dahlias and daffodils?

Because I always hold the watering can with earnest, the grooves of its handle imprinted in my hand, as I water my garden each and every morning. And you don't notice them, the flowers that I make bloom.

You gave me the red dahlias and daffodils, and I always close my eyes at night, thinking one day you will notice.

And I know you won't.

But I go on anyway, with my morning gardening; keeping the soil, cutting what has died, keeping them alive from morning through night, caring  this way always, without self-regard.

This is my way of love.

Buried in the snow,
red like an apple in harvest
losing her warmth to the cold
beauty in her eyes that reflect kind

And oh, what an arrogant man
selfish man
condescending man
clueless man
naive man
ignorant man
who is amused by her beauty

Amused by her kind
amused by her ignorance
amused by her naivety
amused by her carelessness
amused by her, he's amused

And her heart was devoted
but swayed by this man
The man she had loved, was forgotten in a blind moment
And this arrogant man
whose hands have been stained by many others,
laid on her

And she's in the snow, red like an apple,
losing her warmth to the cold of the white blankets
In Moscow's piling ice
that glows on her skin

Her lips grow cold, her lashes collect ice
the warmth is gone, and a beautiful pearl now
lays buried beneath the ground

The sour of the metal spoon
clings to the roof of my mouth.
My eyes water, lips pucker,
as my hands tremble underneath
the low light of the humid room.

The movement of time grates on
my frozen nerves, thrumming
within heated flesh. Death sits across
from where I am, as I feast upon the
offering that life gives.

The food is cold. It is ash in my mouth.
For I have stuck to the same food for so long, I have found, I am not content
with the serving I have chosen. But Death waits patiently, in his alcove
of mystery.

It is time, and I know.

I dine with death, with spoon and fork in hand, and this is the food I have chosen.

This is the life I have lived. My choice that I ponder, and we concede. It doesn't matter what food we eat, with what we eat, and how we eat it. But by the end, I know.

I have chosen something terrible, and Death will hold me by the hand alone, as we leave, side by side, to the door outside.

I don't know what to do.
The lines of memories
both sad, happy
a momentary stun of a supernova
blinding me with a light
so dark
so dim
the moment of peace
turns into a fight

They say my name
an echo of a wind
a fading star
forever pulverized into dust
exploding but not returning evermore.

My name.
My name.
It's in the dark, and it stays there.

i do still care over what they think;
what the demons seem to say
and what my friends seem to say,
and it pains me to even say,
that I do still care.

because when i turn to myself for comfort,
Even I’m not there.

I brush your love,
and I am in a tizzy;
feet bare and loose
on the grass and soil,
reaching the far stretches
of land like the sea;
skies dappled with
large clouds, as blue and clear
as a baby's set of eyes;
love so deep and cavernous,
and wedged deep into the earth,
a depth of which I could not fathom;
strong and mischievous like the wind
in a storm of your emotions,
wrecking civilizations like they were
made out of paper.

You left me in awe
when you told me that
your love was boundless
like the universe.

So imagine my surprise
about the depth of your love
when I had once underestimated it
so much. When I brushed you off
like lint on my coats and shirts. Not
deeming you worthy of my time, as I watched you move and love another.

I have never stated that the love I had witnessed was ever mine.

They say we're both
heading down to hell
and that, nothing will change that.

But from what I remember,
it has always been hell for
the both of us,
which is why,
nothing will change,
and we're not moving from where
we are.

I feel like I can do nothing on the face of the earth
as they fight on the other side of these walls
as my tears fall into the green pillow I hug to my chest
as their shouts echo their way into my room as a witness
as his cries fill my ears with pain and hopelessness
as I put a fist to my mouth to strangle my cries
as I try to silence their voices with my mind
as he hits him again with his knuckles or his belt
as they misunderstand and accuse for no reason
and I tumble down an empty hole that feels like no light
can pirece this cavernous, vast darkness I’ve fallen into.

And then I hear him beside me, putting pitiful tissues
on his scratched arm, tear stained lashes and tousled hair
bearing the testament of a spirit’s spite and anger.
And I wipe my tears away, and I open my mouth to tell you,
but I cannot say it aloud, for they might come for me.
But I promise anyway, “One day, I’ll make them pay.
One Day.”

With one look,
he sets my soul ablaze.
With one look,
he can end my passing days.
With one look,
he taught my heart to stay.
With one look,
he took my heart away.

I open the door.

It creaks open,
and my fingers tremble at the ****.
Beyond the small window,
and the pounding of my heart.

We are close enough,
and my words are lodged up somewhere-
everywhere-all at once!

I want to say hello, for you to smile my way.
The yearning in my heart grows stronger,
but aren't we just friends? Can't I just say it?

So why, why, why,
is my body frozen to the door?
To the side?
As you pass by?

I need to move somehow,
just a little bit, *please.

But you open another door.

And it closes.

We're all new endings and beginnings,
raised as paramours to our rips and tears.
We swayed like Wordworth's Daffodils,
and we all cried out in the air.

We're faded pictures in an infinity
told to believe in the death of our lives.
But we were never taught how to live
in this world filled with beautiful lies.

So there was no foreground to build upon,
but we were given the chance to survive.
Even when we all can't dance to live,
we can make music to battle the anguished cries.

The emptiness rests within me, flowing through my veins and my bones, solidifying the feeling of one-ness that resides within me alone. How do I stop this feeling? How do I stop this un-feeling?

I do not know the answer.  It is unattainable, far beyond the scope of my state of mind. I understand not what makes me starve through the night; what makes my lips ache and crack; what makes me sleep through the day; what makes me lie awake when all I want is to die.

If I am a tapestry, a threaded piece, then all I want to do is to tear my nerve-endings apart, perhaps slowly--or quickly, whichever it may be. I want to pluck every thread and slowly pull myself into mere shreds of who I am until nothing is left. And I want to permeate, like water evaporating through the atmosphere.

Unseen by the naked eye.

Maybe then, when I join the very air I breathe, I will know what it feels like to become something.

To simply belong.

And so, how are we to move on from a love we desperately hold on to?

You pushed me far away because I couldn't understand.
I didn't even know what was happening, but you assumed right away,
that I was a clueless person, that I was nothing less but a mere speck of dust. Though you may oppose in the near future, that's what you made me feel like.

But the distance you gave me, it was unlike the rest. Because I saw how you changed, how your skin morphed and how your thoughts worked. And though distance is painful, I'm much more glad in seeing the bigger picture. That no matter how much you changed, I still love the way you are.

Still love the way you hurt me.

I hung pictures on the wall
The faces frowned at me
not because I hung them
by their frames
But because I nailed them there
instead.