your words sound like sighs on my shoulders. when you kiss me, I want to say, Kiss me again. I started smoking because its aftertaste reminds me of your morning coffee.

I dream of us growing
out tin can telephone
wires from our navel
following them until
we find ourselves in the
same city the same street
same doorstep same room
same bed same
pair of arms we wrap ourselves with
but lo, sweet, I wonder what it
would feel like then
after all
the past years gifted me a
new pair of eyes and you,
finally some validation
(and a better sense of song)
I’ve yielded and listened to the 60s
when Sarstedt asks where I go to,
I know you still know

Civil War

We ruined each other as if together, our lives was a reincarnation of the Civil War. Maybe, you were the righteous. Maybe, I was hanging with the wrong side of the party. But those weren’t as relevant as how you killed all my feelings and motivation for living, or how I threw bombs that made you broken, bleak and desperate for an en route back to happiness. I am so sorry.
But I am more sorry at how everything we say now will never change anything in the course of this whole affair.
Our lives together is a reincarnation of the Civil War. And in every rebirth, I know the ending like the back of my hand.
You’re Lincoln and I’m Booth. I’m always going to be the one who puts a bullet through your head. You’re always going to be the reason I’ll find myself burned until I’m dead.
I’ve always believed that you and I are meant to be. Sure, maybe we did play the most important parts in each other’s lives: not lovers, dear, killers.

There are roaches in the bathroom
floor and I spent
sixty minutes sitting
under the shower. When
I woke up, I found
a note on my bag written
in capitals, asking
why I have a box
of Marlboro mints. I
don’t want to answer. I
don’t want to see
anyone for a year. I
figured I could say, “My
mental health failed me. I’m
sorry.” They
might not understand
but at least I won’t be lying.


you say my name and that’s all you ever say. it used to bother me.
I wanted answers, goddammit.
  I’d ask you, “what do we do now?” and you’d say, “jenna”

“hey, listen I have to tell you something”

“it’s tragic but I think I’m in love with you”

“is that all you’re gonna say?”

we stopped talking. midnight stars aren’t visible in the city anymore. I only like you when we’re alone anyway. besides. I heard what he told you behind a mouthful of smoke, You can have a better girl. barely a whisper he leans over your ear, looks at me with an eye, “shouldn’t you have forgotten her by now?” I wrote apologies in the sand and poured you handfuls. you never knew. you hurt me, but I’m sorry I hurt you, too. the next day I cried out poems and our island bus wound past mountains.

pick up metaphors from the grocery, put them in shopping carts, have them packed in a paper bag of vocabulary then sprint your way out of there. hope is a ray of light but can love be leftovers in the fridge? dress your words grandly but make them talk in a way that business suits and farmer hats would understand. let your phrases ride trains, then walk, make them take the overpass and bike their way home. have them excavate your brain and sing your dirty, mud-filled thoughts about seawater and leaving marks on paper. the world is bitter but with a dash of sugar and an hour in the oven, it can be your favorite dessert.

Things We Became

A vinyl player with someone else’s record. A misplaced map. Geometry class that taught about the parts of our body. A compass rose pointing to the south. That picture of myself smiling, with you on the background,  walking out the door.
We could’ve been anything, instead we became these.

If I was shrunk into a miniature size, I’d walk the contours of your face and stand in front of your eyes while you sleep. When you wake, I’d throw coins into the depths of your pupil and wish that I can live inside you. Your eyes are the kind of brown I was told I can paint a forest with.