Wordless

Finding the words is like trying
to find a single vein
in the vineyard of your body.

The whole day

is a feeling,
and the words are all caught
at the front gates, teeth.

It feels like knowing Polish
without being able to speak Polish.

pacific pillowtalk

Lying under the silence of waves,
tangled in blue and green roars,
a splash of marbles
fall and disappear to the bed
and I'm just dreaming of the feel
of you looking at me.

Being loved

Flowerbeds


There is little I prefer to the sensation of his planting
two kisses on the top of my head before sleep.
Only now have I realised how funny planting a kiss seems,
as if all kisses are capable of growing,
and if we wake up one day with our pillows full of roses
we'll know that they grew from those night-time kisses

Before the summer I turned seventeen, I was blindly faithful. Afraid sometimes, but not the way I am today, and the fear is misplaced. I know, because the worst is behind me. Back then I couldn't fathom the reasons why I was wanted. When you have no knowledge of why, you feel powerless. For the first time, with him, my intricacies are brought to light. I have felt the very bottom of being and he was always there. Once I was back he could not stop smiling because he'd been waiting for me there.
Now I am confronted with what I try hard not to measure. Feeling one of his hands against the ladder of my neck, his fingertips measuring, calibrating breaths, I imagine he is considering the enormous burden of loving me. He says he is wondering how he became so lucky.
When thoughts clash like that, everything is confused. Maybe that was where the chaos came from. My fascination with the Butterflychaos Theory and continuously imagining all the parallel lifetimes I may have had, and all the small things I have passed by in the world that shaped me into what I am today, that gave me this lifetime instead.

Train of thought on a train

I'm beginning to think that I'm not real, and that every self-judgment is only a small projection of how I fear just existing. All of me could be disproved, And even if my body was real, it would only be there so my mind would have something to float in. Still, when I see my reflection in windows and doors I am taken aback because I forget I'm not invisible. I forget how my body and mind go together, that I exist as a physical thing even when I cannot see me or mine. But I don't want, really, to give up on being haunted or needed, of wanting to hold on to any semblance of a good thing.

Sleeps.

Outside, golden hands make the light change colours.
Hypnos tells me it’s okay; I tell him I’m fightless.
Cold daylight chews me into nighttime pieces
 and perhaps if I tell the sun what I’m reading it will stay a little longer.

Everything past the window is uneven and loud like the ocean,
Melancholy and pointed like knees and fists and teeth.
September falls into October and paper stays paper,
Though it used to be trees somewhere in the sun,
But the real truth is that there is emptiness in everything, not just beds.

October is coming in like a train whose whistle echoes for days,
An old steam engine with one hundred thousand windows,
Whole rooms for watching time but no space for little tides, big blinks,
Or eating up a list of books I must read before I turn twenty-five.

Light retires with a soporific goodnight and all that is left is a dearth of sleep,
Imaginary owls and other big-eyed birds contemplating stars.
Morning will sound like breathless trees stretching new leaves,
Clouds whirling, tiny winds darting through my sheets until I am grey again.
Sleep is just dust and I hate feeling filthy.

In memory of people

For a moment she was nothing but a beat of nostalgia
Disappearing on the end of his tongue.
Then suddenly misplaced
Like a receipt under an ashtray.
Or was she replaced?
Quitting cigarettes to grow orchids.