Love affair.


You make the earth your stage –
dancing                              across
continents that
you are sure will never meet.

The oceans that separate your love
affairs wouldn’t
stand a chance.
You move so quickly on this land,
(like/where years are days)
that all those islands that dared
romanticize the idea of you
are taken for
floating fools.
Why are you painting this world red
when you are in
love with the sky?
Why are you pretending that you
would be in
love with the sky
only if the blues turned a soft green.


Art by Brooklyn Whelan


If they agree. 

“Oh darling, 

I know you want me there. Closer to each breath you exhale and even closer when you inhale. I know you want to be able to pull me  out like handwritten letters on a day you are craving meaning. I know you want to touch every fibre of my being and turn Sparks into an emergency fire. But try convincing these ears that don’t hear you say these words. The hands that stretch for you but don’t reach your fingers even when you’re near and the legs that pretended it needed crutches. If they agree, I’ll agree”

Photo by Mark Del Mar

Excerpt from a sent mail. 

“Between tangled timezones and endless space, stay trapped, a dozen conversations in front of that mirror.  That shade of lipstick, those earrings or the taste of that lotion. Which one did you hate the most? Y’all  created a dozen replications  of the same sequence. How did y’all end up loving that reflection, when all y’all spoke about were the little things you hate? What happens to all that truth your hands spoke to her waist ” -Excerpt from a sent mail 


“Do you feel the waves receding? No longer shall my white capped rage attack your shore. And even if you offered to be the sky, I’m sure it would be for no other reason than the desire for me to reflect your mood. But you’d choose the role of only the shore or the sky, leaving me in between, knowing middle is no place to be”


Art by Dániel Taylor


Grew up, trying to convince my mother I  can sustain myself, with that candy she refuses to buy me, trying to convince my father, eating that scoop of  ice cream will actually not get me a cold, little did I realize while convincing them about sweets and ice creams, I grew up convincing myself I could sustain my appetite for love, with that tiny miniscule drop of love you once offered, I could kill hurt by hurting more. Now, I like my share of sweets after a full course meal, and my scoop of ice cream on a warm sunny day. But wanting you is like wanting to kill myself on a cold winter night by waiting on the streets without a sweater, and telling myself I’m fasting, when I’m starving.