31 December, 2016


There, where the spilled dreams
teach me

I am distracted by comfort and defiance
My own recollections,
misshapen halfpillows
but they are where I rest
as I lay on sand at high noon
being cooked alive by stars

I believe it to be true
that falling in love is a mockery
of death

Revolution is never without blood
and pride is still an armor

There, where the spilled aches
of my heart spoil my dreams

I ask
When will it be sufficient
to show ourselves to one another

30 December, 2016

Hoping to Remain

Soon everyone will be drinking tea
and smiling weakly
about the argument the night before
Oh, I still love them, of course
I’m just being dramatic today

Tangled memories left in piles
on a handmade table
wait to be filtered and pressed
like flowers,
safe, dormant

The stench of death meanwhile,
quite lazily disguised,
remains stuck
to everyone’s bones
like a putrid barnacle

Soon we will all drink our tea
and try to forget those
common, wilted griefs we carry
hoping to remain loved
by an immortal