Ode to Washed-Up Children

September 5, 2015

Are we not all like children riding our own little boats, braving the uncertainty of this ocean whose waves are larger than us, than our boats, than the tsunamis waiting to tear down the cities we know, just so we can forget and turn away, only to get washed up on the shorelines of nostalgia, sleeping, lost in a dream where we find no need for boats, for the sea, for the waves, just us, soft light attaching to our cheeks, floating, in the kiddie pool dad has set up for the summer?


June 18, 2015

Your hair, a typhoon-ravaged backyard. Your shoes do not match your watch and your watch doesn’t match your reflection. You watch: monkey as emulated indignation. You pull the minutes back, release them all in a chosen hour hoping to shoot the day to the moon. You walk longer routes for songs to finish playing, movement of clouds and balloons—a somber painting. Where do these beautiful dolls come from? Head in the supple hills of their chest, you dream of a girl whose skin you sink in. Like Titanic, there’s death in the depths of these days that put a dent on your head.


An Astronaut

April 24, 2015

It’s like a comet cratered your heart and in it sat a ghost of spatial aspirations–an astronaut bearing your name–till it faded in heavy airlessness, the stars turning into stone in the background.

Carrabba’s Cup

April 9, 2015

There is comfort in sitting alone at a table for two, blankly staring at a half-eaten sandwich, imagining it to be your life on a plate, the rest of the world conversing, closing a deal maybe, discussing plans for a party to be thrown in a yacht two months from now, or simply spilling gossips over coffee and hushed, malicious laughter. This is a reminder of how you are always a lingering thought in a consciousness far greater than yours. And in all this, there’s a catch: you catching yourself glancing over your shoulder, hoping to find someone who’ll look your way and nod, as if telling you that she gets it too.