friday morning

today is one of those days where living decided to sail on its ship

where life decided to let go of you like you were a long arduous mission it is hopeless to achieve

and as much as it stands you on the edge of its ship your promise to hold onto its ropes still nags at you

– to wake up to get out of bed but today you can’t do either

today you are as pointless as a bout of faith

you are as feeble as burned trees in forests

today you are unable to reach for life; today you don’t want to reach it

today this ship is letting go of you – you are cargo it can afford to lose

you are a sacrifice it must give –

and now the waves engulf you and you still can’t move

you are enveloped by frosting palms

they grip you as tight as you let go

today you are theirs

and the ocean does not want you


A Summer Day’s Dream

The summer’s warmth painted the girl’s pale cheeks a soft orange, she was grateful she remembered to apply her sun cream this morning.

She sat on a peach-pink chair next to a table which reflected the sun’s bright hues. To her left, she could see the gigantic, overarching figure of the 800,000 miles wide star.

As she looked at it, she recalled a day not long ago when she and her friends had discovered the edge of the Earth. And with it, the center of the universe.

Now that they have discovered it, they thought, there was nothing else to do but place a couple of pink chairs and a table to enjoy the view.

Every now and then, as she sipped on her lemonade juice, she would remember the pact they made: to forever enjoy these soft orange hues with one another, and to never tell anyone else about their discovery.

Some shadows stay

I can see three silhouettes

Two to my front

Yours next to me


A car driving by distilled dark

Stars blurring away like spotlights

Winds carrying the chaos of crowds


I knew I’d write about this

I’d make a constellation out of this uncertainty

A photograph of this conclusion

A frame of this fear


Holding the hands which held you

I’d see that this black isn’t a starry night

The dark has no constellations

Silhouettes are not promises


Somehow I can still look out the car window

I can still see the dim light of a northern star

I still feel the wind caress my eyelids


Despite my stained fingertips

I wonder,

Does it still remember me?


Bolt (v.): to secure or to flee

It’s childish, I think, to believe in the permanency of things

To believe the sun will always rise the way it does

To believe the stars will forever hold hands with the sky

There is an allure in always,

Like a new born baby in its mother’s arms

Wishing for its first forever

But forever fades to frail,

As a mother’s arms weaken

As the sun stops rising

As the stars stop shining

I will hold you

I will tell you;

There can be comfort in ends, too,

If you understand

That the sun isn’t yours

These stars don’t shine for you

This sky doesn’t know you

I will not tell you

Of permanence,

I will not tell you

That you are the universe,

That one brush stroke might change the world

I hope one day you could teach me otherwise

Maybe one day you could show me

That this sky understands me

These stars know me

The sun sees me

As my palms wrinkle,

I promise to hold you still

To fulfill your forever

Not with permanence

Never for permanence

the ways you’re You

how much do you need to write about a person to forget, understand, or love them?

how much of their habits do you need to describe?

like the way their jaw clenches when their tongue can’t make out the right words

or the way they smile when they really don’t want to but know they should

there’s no finish line to writing about you and this race has left me heaving

every sunshine against your face, every paint stain on every finger, every smile wrinkle

im breathless and out of rhymes

Yet here I am,

describing the curves of your palms as I’ve done a million times


sometimes I look at you like this image of you right here right now is all I’ll ever have

sometimes I hold you like this touch is the only warmth I’ll feel on a winter night

now I reach for you but your portrait is gone and it’s always December

so here I am, nailing you in my memory with nothing but words

nothing but metaphors of the way you smile

when you really don’t want to,

but know you should

Insomnia Is Your Friend

It’s 4 a.m. and I’m practicing a new breathing exercise I read about on a Psychology website. It’s supposed to help me sleep.

With every inhale, I should prepare my muscles to let go, and with every exhale, I should breathe out the tension.

I find it a bit difficult to breathe in and out if I’m nailed in the space of a four by six portrait of what happened, what could have happened, and what might happen.

My breaths make me too big for its space, and I try to break this glass wall but it’s the only thing keeping me in place. I inhale.

Music forces itself into my head but it’s not the type of music I’d like to hear. I exhale.

Butterflies flutter around my chest but they’re not blue or soft, they’re colorless and their wings are tipped with blades. I inhale.

This portrait is getting smaller with every could have been. The butterflies are trying to scratch their way out of my chest. I can’t seem to find the pause button.

I exhale.

This exercise isn’t working.


There is a storm weathering outside
My mind is held captive in the belly of a beast
Winds rise and sands adorn his intestines,
My furniture,

There is a storm bellowing
In this belly of a beast
But it won’t let me go

Now I can’t tell, my Palms
From his Walls
My Body, from his
Furniture, his
From my Inside

There is a storm weathering outside
But it’s no longer out
My world is yellow
The storm is right here

I become this Creature
Calling itself my

Now a yellow storm
Locks its fingers with mine
I welcome the winds,
Never ending