the wise

days stretch into months and months stretch into years like
dough: beaten, flattened, pulled apart to mock the crumbling fool I am.
nothing has changed.
radio silence brims like sea foam in the concave of our ears
and we aren’t speaking
but in this moment, my love, everything is perfect.

I know to savour it—slowly, blissfully, precariously
—like justifying an expensive dessert by letting it melt ever so slowly on your tongue
before swallowing it whole in all its saccharine futility.

I look to the ground where our shadows merge. this is as real as it can ever get.
all you’ll ever be is another inane fantasy, my love,
a thirteenth fraction of a clock.
diabolical as honesty. forbidden as eden.

still, I marvel at the revolutionary alignment of our stars
because I know that in this moment, my love, everything is perfect.

we still aren’t speaking,
but being so close to you that the world around peels itself away
is already more than I have begged for.

somewhere in the defunct cogs of time, an inexplicable force
churns me on.

as perfect as this moment is, my love, I already know what is about to come next.
the ground I stand on will tremble like the surface of a lake before a storm.
the words I’m about to speak will topple in slow motion like porcelain off a shelf.
the way you look at me will tense up like the hind limbs of a starved predator
and I will be left a reeled fish thrown off the boat, bloodied,


if I’ll ever get back in a moment like this, my love, in which
everything is perfect.

hell over heaven

in another universe, a cat lands on its back.
in this one, it wishes it did,
of life just… growing too weary.

what it once thought was paradise is
now an amalgamated blur of spilled ink
and pens clicking; unearned bows and
goldfish feeding.

to drown itself in the mundane:
pedestrian whines about priced water.
baying baby digs its legs into nylon.
expired bread clips… still clipped.

it sheds off its layers like an
apple being skinned for someone else
to sink their teeth in with ease and say:

ah, there you are. 

there I am.
there I do not want to be.

hope is a fall into the moonlit pond,
still as Atlantis, loud as summer,
coming home to rusty coins
lying idle below.

midnight blues

i’ve been groping for a candle
to melt the blue night away,
a flame on a riverbed you
float above while you hungrily scour
the banks for a heart to stitch you name on.

some permanency i assumed
flakes off the wall i wait behind.
this acrid affection dripping off my chin
can’t be wrung out

in a seashell.
or a pillow.
or a glass bottle.

dried blood on a screw meets
a fresh tide at daybreak.

most candles simply exhale
the vignette of you but
tomorrow will come only if i
melt the blue night away.

a dusty tune starts to soak
the air as i
continue my search.

euclidean distance

I think I’ve never wanted anyone more—but you’re already halfway across the ocean that you’ve so laboriously tried to beat down into submission. What’s left for me to do is to wait at the pier for the mast of my own Time to be erected. I enter a laughable attempt at embedding the contours of your vessel in the harbours of my mind, bitterly pining to sail past an exact replica after I’ve mastered the turbulence of my own voyage. Chronology has not been the kindest to me, yet it is the only thing that has curbed the erasure of possibility—allusions to my coveted Future—a dancing wisp of air giving the quivering needle in my compass a little meaning. Half a reason more to watch the bleeding horizon swallow you up with nothing but a smile and a parting wave, grander than the ones that crash at my feet.

All clocks will always point to you, the time of my life—my nascent abstraction of love.

the last piece doesn’t fit

working with nothing is what i do best:
it is lapping up the gold coins
of wishes unheard spraying in
all directions from a bird fountain—
there’s something beautiful about
trying to separate gold from bronze
in the darkness that prods at what is

working with nothing is what i do best:
it is getting down on all fours to prey
on something unrecognisable and strange.
through the glass of the urn these ashes
are tamed and unmoving, deprived of the
winds that give them song and dance,
yet i’ve held nothing more alive in my eyes.

working with nothing is what i do best:
it is holding on to a drink for longer than you know you should,
being convinced that melted ice
shouldn’t be discounted as a beverage.
the bank notes exchanged for this thinly
stretched delight were grown from the soil,
just like coffee beans, you forget.

working with nothing is what i do best:
it is unveiling the lace that shields your face
and finding nothing but stolen glimpses of
the back of your neck,
or the introspection you press between your lips—
but still loving you the same,
undocumented and subdued, anyway,


the world is a bathtub

in seconds we mutter a thousand verses

and jog our fingers down plastic beads,

though we know that none of the psalms or hymns

can save us from the way we claw onto each other so

we don’t feel the winds of the fall.

like crescendos, i grow, only to scrape my knees

on the harrowing accents you release from the bow of a


because when all the world’s a bathtub

and my ears are steeped in foam,

all i can hear is the lingering doom that screeches

before the plug escapes the geyser


through the hourglass i peer to see this golden dust drizzle inward,

swallowed by a starved vortex

like those halcyon days when

sugar didn’t feel like mites on my tongue.

with weathered fingers i

overturn this simplistic contraption

and like a metafictional novelist

through the hourglass i peer again

—timeless covet


rest your bones from time to time because there is an unavowed need to have those moments in which we sit down in repose: the only way to catch a glimpse of delicate seedlings swaying in the cracks of the asphalt pavement, how they stretch their necks to satiate their thirst for cups of sunlight. petals a tad bit more saturated than their mother’s, she’s an ocean away. tip-toeing to reaching a little higher than the sporadic weeds to see every setting of the sun. slapped so hard by the wind that its head descends to the earth. then recovers and dreams grandly again, skyward.

so everything is motionless and we see motion.

then we understand and carry on.

(sit down again if you must)


act of contrition

in bitter retrospect, i lay my head down and my vision becomes one with the multitudinous stars. the placid rhythm of their pulsation, like the heartbeat of history, keeps … slowing … down … and in my great sorrow for all the thing i’ve done, i seep away into soothing repose, like rainwater into a shore, letting the waves take me with them to a better tomorrow, where i am forgiven