After math 

You ask me how are you? 
I want to answer I am the  after math of you talking about loving me with a mouthful of leaving. But all I reply is a thousand little things which don’t catch your attention.

I say I want to hug you. 
But the truth is it’s just arms locked in losing and permanent smiles that don’t fade easily.  

I say I’m used to the cold, and these odd digits make me feel hot in spring. But I’m just cold from Frozen nothing’s of your silence. 

What a beautiful house you make out of longing. But darling it’s just windowless rooms of pain. 

I say I am numb. But it’s a burden to feel the razor sharp cuts of all these fragments of our present. 


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 

Blue daisies and warm light

The goddess of weather personally greeted her with two of her favourite seasons at one time. The pregnant skies finally  delivered droplets of rain she waited 9 whole months for. The breeze moved like an ambulance rushing to save a soul.The room was warmly lit, the fresh blue daisies giving company to her wild spirit. Everything in sync with her idea of beauty. But slowly through slightly open windows of repressed memory, entered a force that  collaborated with the rice lights, and illuminated a feeling so dark. Emptiness, could it be you?



Fold and Tuck

“I am molded by your will, when I fold and tuck good memories, they just become squared versions of your face. When I write poetry, the broken metaphors spell your name.
You think I’m holding on, but you’re so numb, that you don’t feel the grip of my words. Love, I’m searing into your psyche. But look how you think it’s you. How many more times are you going to leave, before this absence starts to weigh on my conscious. Your rhythm is as steady as  that of the waves. Oh, darling, how you tease the shore, before you leave”