•November 10, 2018 • Leave a Comment

will be dreaming in blues and greens for a while now

•November 9, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Toe peeping from under skirt,
Two cold bottles, two cold cold hands.
The evening winds around her neck.
The evening has its own agenda, a whistle only she can hear.

Call out, and see which face turns up at your window. You can’t pretend you knew this all along.

•November 9, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Finding that sweet spot between action and inaction, the pause before the sip, the look before the kiss. Last call of the soul, last call. Our eyes meet over the loud humans, our souls meet through the energetic debris, but is it a moment or a thought? Is it real, but forgot?

•November 9, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Do I desire that the winds and the fire and the seas and the dust be chronological? Can I ever chart the evolution of a smile? We grow in ways we can’t articulate, calculate, or anticipate. So here I am, pencil in hand, tapping my toes to a tune, growing cell by cell by cell.

•November 9, 2018 • Leave a Comment

The grudge hides beneath hand-drawn maps of cities, and broken embraces. The grudge becomes the yellow smog snuffing out streetlamps, the nausea after talking too much too fast.

And, as always, the grudge begrudges its own grudging nature.

•November 9, 2018 • Leave a Comment

i compose entire pages in my minds, so when i hear your breath slide up the stairs at 10:05 today, i am ready. i think this is the evening i tell you a story; when you finally smell the frangipani buried deep in my chest.

madham. madham. here. now. soft

rain.

will you let me cry tonight? finally ignore the question mark(s)?

guess it’s safe to wonder- what am I to do with this love? what am I to do without this love?

•September 22, 2018 • Leave a Comment

‘Remembering now all those farewells (fake farewells, worked-up farewells), Irena thinks: a person who messes up her goodbyes shouldn’t expect much from her re-unions”

– Kundera (Ignorance)