and Forevermore 

last night,

the rains of death

beat upon our windowpanes,

stole a soul and snuck away;



a breathing body of sand and chimneys,


stands tall to receive the morning

the same as ever,

but behind her curtains

she conceals

the sobs, herbs and the stench of a nightmare;

but the grass beneath

my feet

kiss my toes, moistening them

with rejuvenated joy

and i ought to wonder

to myself:

afterall, if a life grows

when another is stolen,

can death really be so horrid?

so forevermore,

the rains of death

beat upon our windowpanes

and forevermore,

in the mornings after

i sought the results of the deadly downpour:



A scented silence 

we are


wearing the silence between us

on our skins,

sitting side by side,

strawberry ice cream cones,

on a road halfway

to the dreams

we built within

sandcastle walls

at seven.


~ even the waves fell silent that day, and the dream sown in beach sand, rose with the scent of the ocean on its sleeves;


we wear

a million fragments

of lifetimes spent

on our kitchen counters,

nursery rooms,

couches & bar tables,


as if they were

well worn shoes

that our feet can smile in.


~ shoe shopping at sixteen and a half, within a quaint little shop, a dream was born coated in fine leather with shades of black and brown;


we wear the calamities,


these stories of a miscarriage:

the one about a father’s cancer:

broken marriages raising

broken children:

and the ones about

mean boys & pretty boys

flickering in and out like

booze-tinted memories

of multiple nights.


~ thirty and two years with minds drowned in mutual funds & childrens’ smiles, a dream was born at the empty bottoms of shot glasses and when it rose, it wore tequila drenched robes;


it is now fifty or so

and here we are,


on a highway

to the paradise

we promised each other

within sandcastle walls,

shoe stores and shot glasses;

it’s been years

since we visited

any of those places

but the memories

are there,

tucked away somewhere

within these shared silences:


~ so finish your ice cream, darling.

we have a hell lot of dreams to hit before we finish up here.

breakups for breakfast 


it has been;


there are molecules of midnight whispers clinging to the curls by my ear,

tickling me,

making me bleed,

as if it was only seconds ago you announced breakfast in bed:

but darling,

my hallucinations do not understand what an unusually bad idea that is;

beginning with sweet kisses and ending in my side of the bed sprinkled with bread crumbs and all the other telltale signs of messy eaters

and yours,

smooth and straight,

as though untouched by breakfast,

or you.


i left bread crumbs all over the place for you to follow
and you left me


at some place with bad music and sinister whispers

with no road map

to point me home,

no lantern to see in the dark,

no fire to warm.



there wasn’t a single bread crumb.


and life as i live it,

trapped within the beats of this music & shapeless syllables of these whispers,

resembles the bed:

no traces of your existence in mine

but with the faint pressure

of a painful memory.


there were spaces 

in my heart 

that you snuggled into, 

bridging it with castles 

painted with 

all the words 

to forgotten poems; 

before the ink could dry 

on the curved syllables, 

you slipped out, 

undoing the seams of the poetry; 

unleashing torrential tearfall 

down my ruddy cheeks 

of which you wrote 

many a sonnet; 

the stench of your words, 

the imprint of poetic castles 


as i draw my own words 

over the memory 

of yours 

until all that remains 

is a salty tang 

on my tongue.


there are many levels of being acquainted with your bathroom floor: 
– crouching behind the door, grinning through a game of hide&seek.

– perusing the sports column while the bath fills.

– the sneaky phone calls to your girlfriend, whispering sweet nothings, desperately hoping your parents don’t walk by the door.

– the quick as lightning jerk off session.

– hiding in one dry corner from the neighbor’s kids you wish to avoid.

– sobbing.

– throwing up last night’s memories and curling up to sob some more.

– sitting your way through a shower.

– sitting your way through showers for days, blaming it on weak knees, not weaker will.

– humming the tunes to the same Hozier song for weeks under your breath, still sitting to shower.

– running out of breath and song but not hours of water.

– staring up at the mirror being fogged by hot mist rising from the stream hitting your back.

– turning numb to the hot water.

– forgetting to soap, tracing water angels in the trickling downpour instead. 

– bringing in newspapers while filling a bath, never reading.

– never hiding and never being sought.

– no more sobbing but hours of gazing at walls. 

– showering and watching crimson liquid floating down the drain, 

and little by little, embraced by slumber.

wintry palms 

your love was like snow, 

beautiful to look at

bathed in pristine white

and melting by afternoon;

your soul was like 

a shard of ice, 

piercing and cold

the snowmans we built 

with our bare hands

crumbled before the sun rose

just like the dreams

we stuffed with 

bedsheet promises 

and empty pillowtalks

only to be blown away 

by the winter breeze

drifting in through 

the closed window;

closed window that remained 


all through winter 

as you held my hand 

and walked me down 

photo albums and ranch stories

about ponies, hearth fires 

and riding saddles, 

talking about 

yin and yang and

the benefits of physiotherapy 

but never about

the infinite nature of stars

or the dull ache in our hearts 

that refused to fall 

in love;

love was your soft hands, 

cupping snowballs and 

flicking them at 

neighborhood kids, 

the same hands 

that held my heart 

with tenderness 

and comfort, 

love was me 

bringing you flowers

from the park

and kissing you on the cheek,

love was the two of us, 

at two separate alters

making false vows to another; 

our love was like snow,

pretty on camera 

but beneath the layers of white, 

scandalous and sad;

your soul was cold as ice 

when it left, 

as were your hands, tenderly 

dropping my heart 

back in its place

and leaving through 

the open window;

the open window 

that let the secret out

ripping your hands away

from mine;

my hands, 

that are still frozen

as i stare outside

the still open window

seeing your smile 

in the snow, 

waiting to be hit

by snowballs

and laughter. 

– 23rd May, 2017.

tangled touches 

— i was warned that you were no saint, 

your whispers echoing 

through my depths

as i let you 

embrace my fingers

with yours, 

knotting up tangle after tangle 

for me to unwind, 

for me to figure out 

all the smiles, cards and coffee shops

that you lead me to 

only to leave me halfway, 

— i was warned that you were a cruel sinner. 

but they were wrong; 

you sinned beautifully, 

your fingers worked through my soul like twas nothing but foamy water, 

tracing temporary patterns; 

slow and artistic, 

encaging me with your touch, 

painting melodies 


forever leaving before the final note; 
— i was warned that you sinned carefully, 

you left no traces behind; 

but you got sidetracked, darling;

my memories bear scars to prove them wrong,

they are laced with 

the aroma of your laughter, 

the length of your unrestrained curl on my pillow

and the movement of your fine fingers 

chopping onions in my kitchen; 

the faint touch 

of your fingers 

lies repressed 

beneath these rotting memory tissues;

— i was warned that you were no saint, darling.

but you let your guard down;

so for once, 

your memories remember 

submitting to my touch 

as mine remember,

submitting to yours.


When I look into the mirror this evening, 

I see laugh crinkles and smile lines. 

A couple hairs greying,

the stubble that’s not too bad,

brown irises that stare back and inside them, 

just a tingle of happiness that rocks my feet. 

I see goodness that overcame trials;

Hours spent at the graveyard I built in my mind for people who left,

Broken memories that stink like cigars and whiskey, playing like a scratched CD, 

Days spent on the couch in my underwear with chips and reality shows,

Taking my time to heal, to breathe a little more freely when I walked with an invisible burden, 

and not to sigh every night when I laid my broken body on the welcoming sheets,

repeating little miracles like mantras in my head, 

counting them on fingers bitten and rebitten. 

trying to climb out of bed every morning, to appreciate the sun, to put another piece of me that I lost back in its place. 

My eyes are more than brown. They’ve been to places everyone goes to in their own personal ways and when they returned to the reflection in front of me, 

they were brighter and happy being brown. Just brown. 

So when I look in the mirror, I see the leftovers of a fight; a damn hard one; a good one. 

And there are no more traces of You. 

The long sleeves hide my battle scars but You, 

You are long gone. 

sculpting kisses

there is a place where I remain, 

tethered at the edge

of something sensational

and satisfying

like the pauses,

the still in the air

before you leaned in

to kiss me. 
now you’ve gone 

as one with the wind 

chasing monuments

and gales of laughter 

tucked within the lines 

of your favorite books

and you’ve left me behind

in this timeless pause, 

always to await your lips
darling, the dust you sitrred

when you slammed the door

four rotten months ago 

has settled

and yet my heart 

jumps from a half slumber

every time it remembers 

the sculpted curves

of your smile. 


My calloused palms 

have bled 

over the years, darling, 

easing into 

the beginnings 

I paved for myself

using your laughter

as my carving knife,

to battle the demons 

that danced 

in the creases 

of your forehead 

and the tensions 

of your shoulder blades, 

driving wedges

the size of universes 

between us, 

leaving us

tethering at cliff’s edge. 

My hands bled 

when I held you first, 

a tiny vessel holding 

all my joy in this world;

And they bled when

you danced with me

in the rain, darling, 

my blood flowing

happily along with 

the rivulets of rain. 

My calloused hands

bled when you laughed, 

when you sobbed. 

My calloused hands 

bled through the ages

and dried one final day, 

when they cupped your face

and whispered love

before they stopped 

bleeding forever.