Deletion

All I did was slide my finger accidentally-

then, it deleted.

I can't get it back. Searching is pointless.

Anger is tightening in the pit of my stomach;
at the same time, I feel numb.

I describe what happened aloud, but
whomever heard laughed sympathetically.

At first, it felt like a chord had been cut
between myself and the thing I desire most.

I was going to let you know. Now, I'm not sure.

Will you also be infuriated, hurt? No,
at least it didn't happen to you; thus, a lack of full empathy.

My head is congested and my neck is stiff;
my stomach is hosting a brick; my eyes see nothing.

Where did it go? Can I save it?
Like a hopeless lover, I check chance again.

How could I have been so careless?
The moment passed quickly, less than an instant.

In that time, I erased time-
time that you still find and I have completely lost.

If I had copied down a few favorite segments,
maybe I could forgive the mistake.

The good and the plain vanished before I blinked.
Proof of existence went with them.

The only sentiment lingering is nostalgia,
such as when I sorely miss the taste of sweet dreams.

Like a dream, it faded away and bitter reality woke.
That pain, if you know it, is an understatement.

And yet, oddly enough, I feel slight relief;
the evidence of my entire association is gone.

Perhaps you should get rid of it immediately,
and we'll start afresh with wisdom.

I won't know what to do when another comes along
because the scar is there, permanently.

What do other people do? And you?

Violent emptiness hangs in the air.
Perfect words are like tomorrow's rain; sorrow and sensitivity remain.

Gift

don't look

don't peak

it's a surprise

a secret

you want to know

but don't open your eyes

i'll show you

hold on

wait

something's

out of place

i fixed it

almost done

there

you want it

here you go

move your hands

open your eyes

go ahead

unwrap it

make a mess

no one cares

it's for you

keep it

yours

a gift

my heart

Candlelight

I need you close, candlelight, this house is so cold.

Six days a week, slipping on icy floors, shivering on a rotten mattress,

watching the sun grow old.

The shutters creak and fling open; the wind freezes my butter and toast.

A thousand blankets could not melt this tundra;

why aren’t you there when I need you most?

Once a week, candlelight, you flicker into existence with a smile.

My frown delights, heart excites, body feels sweet slumber—

can’t you, I beg, stay a longer while?

As night draws near, you disappear, without even a smoke trace.

My hands remember, my lips are tender, my mind hopes:

perhaps tomorrow, candlelight, you will love my face.

But tomorrow you are elsewhere; the day after is too soon.

Six days must pass, flipping over the waiting glass—

long, pretty sunrise and bright lonely moon.

I wonder sometimes,

if it would’ve been easier

never to have known you…

Masterpiece

The moment when he looks at you and there’s your reflection,

clear like this morning in the mirror before you arrived

but now your hair’s messed up and your nose looks swollen,

and the wrinkles under your eyes reveal fatigue, age, 

the way you pull at your skin when wiping off liner - 

and you think to yourself, mid-way reminiscence,

 “I’ve really got to stop doing that”

but also, “Wow.” Just wow.

The moment when he looks at you - and you’re all he sees.

The nice outfit, the spot on your cheek. 

You’ve been lost for a long time, decades maybe,

but he's found you now, eyes wide, calm, staring.

The imperfections mesh with flawlessness;

it’s a live portrait, so you don’t move. 

This is his viewpoint: he accepts you,

petals and thorns, rips and holes, dirt and dust,

he wants all of it. Every junkyard scrap and rusty corner,

your flat butt and small chest, the stress episodes and indecisiveness,

your inability to relax sometimes when nothing is going on,

the constant fretting that drives him up the wall,

or whatever is specific to your body and who you are.

He wants you. 

It’s in his eyes, miles away or an inch apart. 

He watches when you arrive, the time you’re there,

when you leave. He doesn’t want to miss a minute of you.

“I love you,” he says. “I love all of you.”

It’s hard to believe it when you look in the mirror - 

the mirror isn’t alive, doesn’t know you, and doesn’t really see you;

it just reflects your own interpretation of yourself.

Ugly, pretty, depends on the day, your mood, how long you slept, 

whether you’re sick or not, the tiny details of your makeup:

this is your self-image. Your viewpoint. Most of the times, it’s hurtful. 

You’re just never good enough.

And then that moment comes, when he looks at you - 

and you realize how beautiful you are to someone.

You are a work of art, every bump, every hair, every cell in your body.

You are the calm and the storm, the summer heat and winter breeze.

You are a blend of colors and textures, softer on some days, a stubborn rock on others.

You are high as Cloud 9 and low as an old oak’s roots,

you are the northern star in a black sky, and the black sky to a northern star. 

You are sugar in lime, a pearl in sand, an oil painting with smudges.

You are you. It was done on purpose.

Look in his eyes and you’ll see, you are nothing less than a masterpiece. 

Dynamite Lotus

Dynamite Lotus in lilac ensemble,
serene presentation, but I know you too well.
Black-magic diva, clowns fumble;
the scars will glitter along Alice's hell.
Lost your mind, have you, drinking lust,
a shot to the brain with obsessive relapse?
Childish chimera on borderline hope;
part skull tattoo, part shy lemonade glass.
On whose throne do you twirl, poised lie?
Admit dependence on Mother Lily's crown.
Linked by graphene umbilical cord,
soft lashes stretch high, but tonight you will drown.
The froth on twelve orders of botulinum
stacks, crisp needles choking one hay-thread.
Heart-pulse, ribbons tear, blood rain shrieks
like tongueless infant thrown in shadow's bed.
Petals gashed and truth unveiled, the Lotus blooms dead.

All I Want To Know

hi again.

i forgot to say something last time we met up.
it was stupid and irresponsible on my part,
to let it slip off my mind.
so, i stayed awake all night and thought about
what would be the best way to tell you.

should i bring flowers?
should i sing it aloud?

i don't have enough money to send planes across the sky
and ask them to write my message in the clouds.
i'm sorry.

i tried icing it on a tall, white cake,
but i'm not very good at that and you deserve expertise.

i went to a hundred different stores and looked for a card,
but nothing written in them were even close to enough.

i did try calling you, but got nervous and hung up halfway.
what a coward i am.
i've embarrassed myself.

and now i'm here, having run through a rainstorm,
soaking wet and a total mess.
i'm cold and a wreck, so anxious in front of you
that i'm burning a fever.

i feel like there's something stuck in my throat.
if i try to speak, will my insides come out?
will you see everything?
will you stay?

scared, but more afraid to lose you.
my life is on the line.
my heart is beating through the earth.
my soul is shaking like a glass leaf caught in a winter breeze.

this is it, nightmare and dream.
but you need to hear it
before anyone else gets the chance.

my eyes filled with tears, i whisper to you now
    will you marry me?

In Caves Of Ice

In caves of ice, Aphrodite disrobed,
unveiling mountains formed by satin pools
and beckoned Thanatos, whose black tongue probed
through sky-shade flames and vixen-eyed jewels.
"Come lie with me," the Lady whispered soft,
curvaceous horizons along her thighs.
"Let them reign in immortality's loft,"
Echo hummed between Her porcelain sighs--
yet as pleasure climbed galaxies unknown,
the pallid King unsheathed charcoal-stained fangs
and wolverine nails, tearing vein and bone
along cliff-edge, where red waterfall hangs.
He smirked shrewdly above innocence wrecked.
"Now butterflies burn in love's defect."