I opened the closet
to find your warm hand
in the pocket of the green hoodie that you used to wear
I found two empty mint chocolate thin sleeves
that you kept  
a memory of us on a warm winter day
you were there holding my hand

aching hearts
rupturing
hurting
memories
will someday turn into smiles
when I too die

life as we know of it is uncountably short
as that of a butterfly's
and my flickering heart
is as fragile as the wings of a butterfly
flapping within temporality
blinded by the dream of reaching you
to remain an unbroken whole
to last

through my forward facing eyes
I could see
all around
I could even see
at nights
in the dark
but I could not foresee
your death

First
you need to forget
to remember
I will never remember you

grief becomes
unbearable
when the all-colorful and fast-whirling spinning top
falls and remains
still and colorless forever

Pushing the snail to reach the fountain
With a simple wish to paint the world

Reaching the fountain to see the snail
In a pushed painting

Painting the snail by the fountain
Wish I did not push this much

Fountaining wishes all abound
In a snailing push of the paint

poems ought to be short to reflect life
but unlike life smooth and free of strife
poems should be abrupt
to reflect death but unlike death should not interrupt

I love you with an innate
effortlessness of true love
a soul in spate
like the bright stars above
light in space

Death literally existed
It was not just
an unhappy ending
in a film separating the loved ones
or nerve-wracking helplessness
in a  novel of despair
death literally existed
in my empty arms and bare hands
lacking you

life is made up of absolute chaos
and humorous incidents
only a carnival can reveal its true nature

you were the closest dot
standing next to me
we visually blended together
to look like love from a distance

It takes a chilling kind of heartlessness
to deny your love
you are the gale breezing through
to fill the air I breath

I am the counterpart of death
living in this world

She has always been the midseason
not cold, not hot
not dry, not wet
not cloudy, not sunny
not windy, not still
without knowing this
moderate
and mild in nature
Meanwhile, he has been the dead season
without knowing that he is dead

The sun dashes through the clouds
and shines on me among the crowds
                                            to hold my hand
not knowing that I am a barren wasteland

I sit in my mind
to wait for me
I sleep in my heart
to dream about myself

you are
a homemade soul healing soup
in a banana bread smell coziness
with notes of chocolate chip cookie essence
and a film-watching excitement
in comfort pajamas

I remember that summer night
not long ago
when we sat across a carved watermelon
with a candle burning inside
the candlelight  
beaming from the eyes and the mouth
of the frowning watermelon, jack-o-lantern lighted your face
by a peaceful smile
when you looked into my eyes
with love and affection

you disappeared suddenly
leaving everything behind
now I am left with only one choice
in this supposedly multiple-choice universe
I will grieve over you throughout
will I ever be able to forget
all the undesirable memories
and coat them with sugar?

Life
has hoaxed us
through a luring incense
of love
and trapped us
in death

Forget all the things
that I have said out loud
Just listen
to my murmuring heart

On his return
The magic potion
that the hero
brought
poisoned all
it was supposed to be
an elixir of love

will I ever be able to find you
if I whirl fast enough
to transcend time and place?

I could only see the joy of life in your eyes

apparently, I will not be able to find life elsewhere
...or anywhere

I am hopelessly muddled
by the unglazed
remembrances of you
that have been scattered all over
in an already mazed
world
and I am on the ground
whirled

Death is lurking in the shadows
and grief seems to draw me near you through heart throes
Sorrow bounds me with you I suppose
as your absence glares

love me not
if you cannot
see me not
if you don't mind

life the villain
you the hero

I have walked
many miles
within myself
towards me
because walking
outwards is
solely impossible

I sit against the boulder
Listening to the thuds and barks off my shoulder

As I get older
Life does not make me any bolder

It is only getting colder
Losing the ones around once they get closer

poetry is like a cake mold
you bake your emotions in a durable and everlasting story told
first, the sides and the bottom, all the visible, explicit but fluid feelings cook to hold
leaving all the others in the inner, implicit, middle no room, and therefore all become bold
everything domes and rises in a deliciously hardened gold

I have been locked with you in a world that is
without you
I can no longer see you as my eyes have been blinded with  constant wet
I can no longer hear your voice as my ears are constantly ringing in a deafening murmur
I can no longer touch you as I cannot reach you
with you is without you

my lips have found yours
under the rain
we both have our raincoats
on, the same beige color  
pressing my lips on yours
hold you real tight
when the cat in my arms
hardly breaths stuck between our pleasure-driven bodies
and meows between our trembling souls and racing hearts

Never forget that once we were lovers
who had hopes and dreams
Always remember that we had a future in the past

Clearing the harshly calm, gray, shallow, stitched shadows of winter
on the pillow. Shining its light through the window  
spring is almost here to nest love  
not even slightly grasping the end     
or hearing the lonely, silent, detached murmurs of a mourned love

Springing from the pure and transcendent serendipity of love 
I have embroidered fancy, needlepoint stitches of you
on the clear canvas, twining the shadows of you with the most beautiful colored yarns
to nest my love under spring waters and bird nests

Shadowing my way towards you 
death is stitched to my soul with a hundred nettle rash like needle stings
to nest my sorrow under my heavy heart aching despite the spring
clearly singing a love sonata about a flaming red, bleeding heart flower sewed on a weary, withering woman’s chest 

On the chamomiles, poppies, and beautiful roses embellished quilt  
here you and I nest
and finally, rest  
when we have a bitter, sharp stitch in our hearts
having seen the dreadful, deadly, and dark shadow selves
repressed fears, tears, and spears ****** our souls
through cluttered sorrows under the semi-stitched garments 
Even the clear spring nor any other magic can possibly unclog

you have never been here at this time of the year
who cares
if the trees will not ever bloom again
nevermind
I feel like you have come all the way to witness my death anyway

in a shallow taken- for- granted-ness
he held her hand loosely
as if she would always be there
to fill his life

Penguins march in my dreams
in a city that will soon be terrorized
with the dispersed paint of their black and white
I am blind in the seamless continuity of whiteness
invisibility undermines my black sorrow
left behind by the happily marching penguins

Standing at the far left of the frame of life
I have been dwarfed by the tall branches of the giant bodied willow tree like sorrow
My brain has been ****** by a poisonous arrow
under the shades that I borrow
from tomorrow

You are all very plastic
endurable and elastic
fit all
senseless
cheap
and meaningless
artificial
spurious
fake
and insincere
with crocodile tears
easy to find
all blind
and not refined

It is that time of the year
Summer is almost here
It is time to pack up
and leave all the gray behind

I will pack up light
I fold the latest dress that you bought  
my love takes up all the space
and I take my biggest dream with me in case

the bright pink dahlias
that stood for patience withered
eventually

heads and tails
life and death

my timid and feeble breath hesitates to catch up with life
when I had you all the days were bright
and it felt alright
leaving everything behind to hide from the night
feels like finding the light
but it is not quite
right
as shedding tears will blight
my soul with mold

Living like the routine has never been broken
keeps hope alive for a while, unspoken  
It is as if reality is not as it seems
and you will come back any minute with the morning beams

I wear garments
made of different stories
I mix and match
things that have happened
with things that have never happened
I combine what will happen
with  what will not happen
words flow in a totally different medium
in a totally different world

The woman in red is waiting for love
                                        blood red love

Ruby, the woman in a red dress
a dress of passion and blood
                                       blood red love

They would call her mad
                             how sad
Ruby owned her story of love
                                      blood red love
passion, pain, and loneliness

Ruby "the insane"
for those
who do not own their own stories
and don't ever truly love
Nobody ever waits for love for anyone, anymore
                                        blood red love

each time
she opened
the box
to find
and release hope
another evil
came out.

bats come on to play soaring through the air when dark
and owls hunt at night
my mind chases all the lost memories of you
and traces pop out brightly
under the fall of darkness