A touch of time —
feels like marigold marmalade,
like spending slow summers together.
Syrup-dripping tears sting as they stick
to your face, attracting bees; and those
jarring truths of a dream unfulfilled.
It stays sealed in glass—sweetness
postponed, a closed jar never tasted.

You plant a flower of hope in the smallest
of gardens, and prove that even a drop
of nectar can fertilize your faith.
You want to rest in blessings, but
blessings move — so must you.

You pray for daily bread, but life
kneads your hands into making it.
You earn your piece, then spread it
like marigold marmalade on warm bread.

Because life isn’t so sweet; dreams only
taste a little once you finally get a bite.
And Lord, could we be forgiven for
craving the fruit of another’s labour?
As we mistake living for pleasing —
and forget to live for our destined reason.

You live between the space
of my fingers,
the caress between my lips.

I only remember when I forget.

Like last night
I thought of you, and it felt like
you were there.

Suddenly, my hands felt like yours
Were there.

Creep is such a bad word,
But there is no other way
to describe it.
I swear I was not thinking about you
only to realize that I was.

And then, I felt the familiar weight of your presence.

You live between the space of my thoughts,
somewhere that's not a dream
but also not just a memory.

When I close my eyes,
you are there,
and I question if you're thinking of me.

Every time I think
and I realize it—
you disappear.

But the weight
the weight of you
I'll never forget.

I only remember when I forget

She walks in, her eyes like soft pencil lines.
She smiles when she looks at the waitress,
ordering a coffee.

I sip mine slow, looking out the diner window.

“You always draw this late?” she asks.

Only when I can’t sleep. Or when I’m hungry.
Just depends on which one happens first.

She rolls her eyes.

Falling feels like a good pen that suddenly runs out of ink.

Normally, when I draw, I’m in my own little world.
No conversation. Just my graphite and my sketchpad.
Of all the beautiful colors that life can arrange,
I admit—I’m intrigued by this woman.

I completely put my pencil down and let my coffee get cold.
But that’s how fast inspiration strikes.

This grayscale drawing, splashed with the rainbow that is her.

Although I’m listening, I keep my head down,
pretending I’m still drawing the picture I was working on
when she first walked in.

She sits two booths away, hesitating before asking,
“Can you draw me?”

I look up immediately.
“You’d have to come closer.”

I catch the reflection of the city in her eyes—
the blinking sign outside, the brake lights from the cars.

I flip the page and start tracing lines on my sketchpad.

She tilts her head, watching my progress.
I ask the waitress for a refill.

“Do you ever draw people you don’t know?”

I look at her, smile, and say, “No.”

At some point, we see everyone before we really meet them.

In a way, it wasn’t a lie.
I have seen her somewhere before.
Or at least, I’ve thought of meeting someone
who looks the way she looks.

But then again, art is subjective.

She watches me over the rim of her mug as she sips her coffee.

She leans forward.
“What do you see when you look at me?”

The most beautiful things happen at unexpected moments.

Normally, when someone asks a question like that,
if you answer too fast, it’s a lie.
If you take too long, it’s a lie.

Before I knew it, I told her:
“Someone that talks to strangers when she’s bored.”

She rolls her eyes.
“Let me see.”

I show her the sketch,
point at it, and imitate her voice.
“Can you draw me?”

It’s not exactly polished.

She studies the rough graphite,
scratched to life between the pores of the page.

She rests her elbows on the table.

Before she answers, I speak first.

“I think about what things can be, versus what’s presented to us.
If we tell each other something deep about ourselves—
a strong 7.5 out of 10—it’s going to be either forgettable
or full of ****. Either way, we’re both hoping
not to regret opening up
to someone who’s just going to nod and smile.”

She smirks.
“If I told you I love the progress on the picture so far, what then?”

I shrug.
“I’d still think you’re full of ****.
But you’re kind of cute.”

Falling feels like a good pen that suddenly runs out of ink.

To be honest, I don’t think it’s the uncertainty of where I’d land.
I haven’t exactly lived my life by the advice I give other people.

I never really think about the end of things.

Whatever I do, I just go with it and expect the best.
I think about it, of course.
But eventually, the ink runs out.

That’s just life.

Although I’m drawing her physically,
in my mind, I’ve drawn the curve of her neck twice over.

The thought of drawing someone else
doesn’t even come to mind

When I made it to work,
I thought about you
getting through the day,
pushing time forward
until it was finally time to go.
I had no idea what I wanted to eat
until the thought of splitting you open,
watching you sit in the depth of my fork,
did it for me.
A scoop of fried rice,
mixed with gravy
there is something so satisfying
about that first bite,
about savoring the moment,
readying the next forkful.
There’s nothing wrong
with wanting something
that wants you back.

If I spill any part of you
on my clothes,
on my hand,
on the table
I still want you.
I will still have you.

There’s nothing wrong
with burgers, burritos,
or any of the other places I pass.
But in this very moment,
the way these eggs, bean sprouts,
and green onions wrap around my tongue
nothing else compares.
Pressing my fork into your crisp edges,
watching the steam rise
I, um,
should’ve ordered extra

She moves fast like a city
full of names, things to do,
and places to be.
No matter how fast she moves,
there is always a spot for you.

Regardless of where you go,
not every woman, not every city,
is the same.

She highlights her personality,
the buildings of her priorities,
Her personalities,
like dominos
uncovered and placed strategically.

The way she was raised,
the not so pretty parts,
Behind the well known parts
of her,
not necessarily put away.
But still, there is a place for you.
Whether it's a quiet night in,
or an event organized
to get to know each other better,
the margins of her heart beat for you
Between the counties.

Although she moves fast,
and one day with her varies from the next,
she's not afraid to let you know that she's busy.
Once she handles all of her business,
be ready to catch up on all that missed time.

But don't forget
she doesn't just find the time
to call or text.
She shows up.
You too are a part of her world