August 9, 2017

It hits you.

Like a hammer to the face. Or a metal ball wrecking the walls of your heart until it is diminished to an upright tissue that attracts pain the way a lightning rod draws lighting.

It remains fresh even after the echo of the last unuttered word had gone and halted the sentences you’ve written on a shared page to a period, a small dot that burns in the wide empty space of wordlessness as much as in your head like the black tumor that it is.

You replay all the shared remembrances, all the memories you took for granted, those which you woke up to saying they were ugly and that you’d make better next time, only to realize there will never be a next time, no doing it over, no more dumping of things on the back burner hoping they’ll unfold petal by petal in due time like a flower. You know you should’ve gone to that fucking beach outing. Or that alcohol binge that’d be too blurry to remember.

They say many more lovers will come; that there will be stars and Milky Ways and supernovas but none of them can bring back home the astronaut floating in the micro-universes created by past experiences.

You will never share the same bed with any other in the same way and fornicate in the same room under the same light with the same pace of breathing and create an offspring you’ll announce before prying eyes—”this is called [insert name here]”—then go about shoving its life story down beer-drenched throats.

You will sleep on it. Because the world is your bed. Or anything you want it to be: spotlights, fog machines, sound effects of a torn dream.

This is not about the lasting one.

This is not about the last thing.

This is not about a girl. Rather, about diamonds turning into embers.


Walking Without Feet

February 25, 2016

It’s like with every step you lose the possible footprint you’re meant to leave. Sometimes it even feels you’re walking without feet, covering no distance, arriving nowhere.

Eventually, Home

February 3, 2016


It’s soothing sitting around watching the world hurry home, music in your ears, lights on your face. It helps to once in a while stop and let the busyness of the city take its course without you thinking of the rush to be somewhere you have to be. You contemplate and realize: you’re a ghost stuck in limbo on the sidelines of somewhere, waiting for your turn to find deliverance in the comfort of a soft seat and eventually, home.


January 28, 2016

Eventually you just have to rip it off. In the process you wish the wound would come off and stick to it so it becomes disposable, but it won’t. You put soap on the gash to remind you of life and convince you that you are human. You’re a dreamer. But the clouds in your head scare you. The rain, you say, is too much and the basin of your brain can’t hold the thoughts waiting to break free as flood to wash you away, wilted. Even water hurts flesh that’s sensitive to harshness. The band can conceal the sight, but when it suffocates the severity, you’ll realize how it is devoid of aid. You look forward to a scar, the palpable possibility of closure. You will trace it with a finger that trembles at the mention of memories. Anticipation has never been this mending.