From the Glassblower

letters in letters you left, loose embers
frolicking in an innocuous upward twirl
to: you, a glassblower on that flirtatious gallivant,
breathing shapeless sand into golden honey.
fun, fun and games. you roll me over like a dice

and then i am at once spellbound, whisked
into a game i had always watched behind shoulders
but never joined. mostly modest
breaths shorten, breaths soften, till you
inflate me like a proud mother’s chest.

for every reason i can find to hate you
i have two more to love you instead;
for every thankless task i droop foolishly
like a homesick adult, one too tired to find the
itch in my spirit, the psychosis that bursts like

an outpour of flames to bake my lips into a stretched smile.
annealed, inside me every second of silence
burns my walls into a crisp. shoved
into an inferno, fished out as a pretty vase,
a goblet, a chalice… crystallized into

picture-perfect perfection. the treasures of Murano.

of the sweltering Italian sunshine. of strange nights
spent aching for more letters awash with love
from: you, to: me
of protests, shattered selves in the kiln,
haunting still potsherds of a heart that saw it coming.

Million Medusas

The sunshine lets a spillage of secrets
Fool me into thinking that this is
yet another beginning of my life. The Sixth.

Having loved one too many
You still stun me stiff
like a million Medusas.
I am both paralysed by love and its negation
一necessitation? Nevertheless,

You’ve got me, again, like a pest
Dancing in the very fumes
sent to kill it

Always mid-movement, limbs
bent all the wrong ways,
reeling my words back again
To mix them like paint on my palate
一palette? Perhaps,

What tones could I
Possibly contrive to cover everything
ugly and grim about myself?
Sinking my loved ones in shipwrecks,
A gut that has never known nourishment,

To make you want to frame me up
And kiss my rough edges and paste me on the
roof of your bunk bed? I continue
Mixing the acrylics as I wonder
一wander? Whatever.

Another Orphean temptation
of departure splinters my will,
and a ghastly silence trickles down
the walls of the room we used to inhabit.
Sabotage is a tradition.

Dying, am I, just dying
To erase this fiction一friction一
Prediction,
Of so many untold secrets
I dread no one will want to keep for me.

Unless you, you
You could cope一nope?
Fat hope.

coronot today

so i wonder, where in the minute are we?
through a fortress of masked faces, minds,
never thought the world would leave me

here, i stand far yet stand not free
washing my memories, bordered by lines
wondering, where in the minute are we?

digits skyrocket, into a soundless reverie
under the stars, a joss stick bleeds and blinds,
I never thought the world would leave me

they hope a strange fate shows mercy,
for tangled queues and questions to unwind.
tell me, where in the minute are we?

cradled like a baby in the arms of the big city,
secretly waiting and dreaming feel like crimes.
never thought the world would leave me

maybe one day we will believe, not only see
to have died once is to have lived two times
still, answer us, where in the minute are we?
never thought the world would leave me

White Whale

I am wandering, haphazardly at best,
head full of helium and heartbeats running wild
to a hallucinatory rhythm.

History stares sternly at me,
its piercing gaze raising the hairs on
the back of my neck. I’ve
been here. The soles of my shoes
fit perfectly into the craters of footprints
left behind in the dirt. 
Perhaps I’ve just walked 
the entire planet to escape you,
only to return to where I had begun
at the end of my cyclical sojourn.

I wish I could tuck you away
into a password, 
or a receipt crushed at the bottom of my purse.

But you are my white whale,
an oasis in a desert. Like a drowning fish,
you make me pull my own puppet strings,
even when I’d sworn to cut them short.

I’m drawn to you, hideously and fatuously,
like a wasp is to a beacon.

And on some days, some better ones, the clouds seem to
morph into the contours of your face,
and I laugh from the earth below
at how even the skies

have a little sense of humour.

a eulogy for a dreamy sunday afternoon

i. sunlight seeping in borrows a rosy hue from tinted window glass, dancing off your tousled hair.

ii. the stereo murmurs a dull synth-pop tune to colour the silence, inside the lines.

iii. buildings we pass melt into a nondescript blur, like abstractions of ink on a drenched book.

iv. the weight of my baggage surrenders to the one tugging at my chest. i know i am not half-dreaming.

v. there’s only so much i can read from the back of your neck, like newspapers shrouded by the dark of morning.

iv. you mean so many things to me, things no tongue could explain. not even to myself.

iii. this silence amidst noise is killing me. i would rather burst into a rhapsodic wail, out of tune.

ii. this moment will not yield to captivity. like a firefly in a jar, the only glow i see is put out by the last breath of a dying dream.

i. heart and soul, mind and soul, maybe it’s time to let this firefly go?

when you said no

discord sown in the fields of my own mind
grow to be weeds, strangling the little seedlings
that cry for renewal, for a fresh breath,
gulping down the last yolk of sunshine for supper.

they tell me that it’s all in my own head:
a mass of tissue and neurons entangled with
the steady beat of my soul, stretching and contracting
like train couplers reconciling cabins that will never touch

all the time, I think about your typicality,
yet having to think implies mystery.
how is it that you never look at yourself in mirrors,
given how you’re so god damn beautiful?
why have I never tasted pretence in your voice,
but have only heard the purest thoughts, organic and
yours alone?

some questions will always be questions.
thus I, deciding whether these are tears or raindrops,
stagger back into eden, crawling
back into the soil of late winter,
retracting my roots in the wait for rebirth next spring.

SIT DOWN, PAIR UP

two white dresses at a wedding will command stares. 
a change of outfit is not granted; 
there are so many skeletons in my closet
that i can’t tell my backbones from belts. 

i can choose to smile and wave like i 
have always,
a rag doll pinned onto a cork board to be 
sliced, diced, and everything nice. 

to iron out my incompatibilities,
a creaseless palm clutching the smallest of 
infinities that persuade me to let go of
cards that no longer serve purpose

for i am a temporary tattoo,
the last page of a calendar, 
counting down to when i won’t fit the 
occasion anymore 

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,

wondering

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.