Untitled #128

I haven’t written in 92 days

the river of inspiration is as dry as my uncapped pens

and the words are knotted 

at the pit of my throat,

a jumbled mess of syllables,

a Scrabble board in mid-game 

shaken by the earthquake of emptiness



For the first time in 92 days I want to write


I want to write poems that burn the surface of his heart

and leave oddly shaped scars that he’ll habitually touch

when he stumbles upon uncomfortable situations


I like to count how many times

he wakes up at night to switch positions,

always hoping he’ll end up

a few inches closer to me


and I’m trying to find the words

to describe the way

his face scrunches up when he’s dreaming 

but I can’t


his lips taste of cheap canned beer and cigarettes

I like to have his kisses 

for breakfast

especially when our eyes haven’t adjusted to the morning

and we’re still holding onto each other 

and the reminisce of the night


I like the way his fingers

get lost in the maze of my hair

when he pulls me in closer

subtracting the space between us

adding to the reasons my heart hurts 

when he’s not there


and I want him to know

how I get the slightest bit dizzy 

when he touches my skin

and how my crooked heart shuffles around 

to make space for all the things I love about him

and his words are constantly playing on all the right nerves


For the first time in 92 days

I’m picking up the pen without fear

I’m spilling ink again 

after running myself dry for so long

and he doesn’t know this

but ever since I fell in his orbit

flowers have started to grow again



Untitled # 116

Two lonely lost kids

Entranced by the moon

And the light in each other's eyes 

I thought I knew

What love was 

Before I met you

But the heart is an impulsive liar


The feeling of home 

Sits in the crevices between 

Your fingers

And I wonder if you miss me

When you sleep alone


I'm still searching for you

Under my bedsheets 

Like mix-matched socks taken off in mid sleep


I'm searching for you

In sky-grey smoke rings 

Noticing how cigarettes 

Taste more bitter 

When shared with solitude 


We tattooed each other

With the same needle 

Shaky crooked lines 

Permanently staining my flesh

Your essence sinking into my blood


I'm searching for you 

In the vacant streets of my veins

Reminisce of your kisses

In the shadows of my cracked lips


I'm cursing at time

I'm arguing with distance 

I'm holding on to memories

So tight my joints ache


Aching as I dance with nostalgia 


Untitled #183

Human illusion

twinkles and burns bright

like a distant star,

you can see it,

but it might not actually

be there.


it's crumbled and slowly withering away.

It's a long and tiring process,

like a toothache reaching

far into the soul.

You know

that by pulling out the tooth

it'll all be over.

But like a dead star,

illusion settles in,

even when dead,

continues to

rot and sink deep within us.

We carry it around with us,

making our heart too heavy to hold. 


Bon Iver

"There I find you marked in constellation  

there isn't ceiling in our garden  

and then I draw an ear on you  

so I can speak into the silence  

it might be over soon" 


Excerpts of a Book I'll Never Write: I' Done Sipping on our Fake Melancholy Love

I thought we'd end

what we had on a stormy night

with silent stares

and shallow goodbyes


in the stinging tears.

Instead I mustered up

the little drops of confidence

I had saved up for this moment

and spilled it out

into a poorly written text

typed with shaky hands

during a late night subway ride home.

To an extent

our pathetic exchange of farewells

seemed to cause me more sadness

regardless of the miles that separate

our burnt out hearts.

We were hanging onto

the elipsis at the end

of our chapter

as an excuse to not turn

the page

and begin the next one.

I was afraid of change,

of accepting that I deserved more

than the pocket-change love

you had served

on a golden platter.

I should have listened

to the warning signs,

taken one of the earlier exits

instead of driving myself

so far into this

until I ended up in a

dead end zone.

I don't regret

swimming in your honey colored eyes

for the years we lasted

running on false hopes.

I don't regret the love

I invested in you,

even if it was a lottery game,

betting on luck,

waiting on a one in a million chance

that what I was giving would somehow

win me the love

I thought you had

within you.

But I also don't regret

leaving you.

I don't regret the giving myself

the opportunity

for something better

than your

part-time dedication

to our relationship.

There's no reason

to water dead flowers,

no way to sail down

a dry river,

no use in waiting on forever.



Untitled # 121

We're crawling into each other's arms


like sleeping bags 

pretending we're cold 

but the reality is that 

I always sleep better when you were my pillow.

I haven't seen the glow in your eyes 

for a few weeks now,

foggy vacant streets replace

the night sky that I used to stare into 

before drifting away to meet them again

in my dreams. 

I didn't think you'd come back to this.

I didn't think you'd allow yourself to 

feel vulnerable under my touch. 

I don't know what map you took

to get yourself back under my sheets

back under my skin.

Bare bones, 

raw skin,

we're trapped in a tornado 

of us

spiraling back into old habits.

I thought our wordless goodbye

was the end to whatever meaning laid 

behind the notion of "us"

but sometimes moments are gestural

and you made your point. 

I thought I was done

trying to list every mistake

that starts with your name

but I guess that I wasn't quite finished

with you. 



Untitled #93

You're that nicotine high 

the one that leaves me dizzy and light

as the smoke leaves my lips 

and fades off in delicate semi-transparent trails into the mid-October wind.

You're the taste of cheap wine

on Brooklyn rooftops 

staining my lips with shades of deep reds and soft purples,

landing strips for your kisses.

You're lazy Sunday mornings

spent in bed 

quietly watching the sun peer through the shades

greeting our bare skin

hidden under the sheets.

You're the long walks

down chipped, dirty pavements

with street lights illuminating the night

and city lights becoming our northern star.





Untitled #103

Lavender laughter,

I feel the way you breathe 

while I sleep, 

shifting under the sheets,

curled up on the left side of the bed,



We drift in and out

of sleep around 5am,

the same way we drift in and out of each other,

anticipating the sound of the alarm,

the light shyly creeping in through the cracks

of the dusty blinds.

I can periodically see the glow

of your pale blue eyes 

through the shadows.

Your snore is three times better

than his ever was.

You make me laugh 

in colors I've never seen before,

and I start falling for you

in languages I don't even know

how to speak. 



An Excerpt From a Book I'll Never Write: Three Years Later

And three years later, I'm dancing around my kitchen in my underwear with a bottle of cheap wine in my hand. The windows are wide open, letting in the fresh November air and letting out the smoke of my loosely rolled cigarette. I feel bits and pieces of you escape my breath with every exhale. The neighbors are awake and shoot occasional glances at me from the window, but I don't mind. For the first time in years, I feel the lightness within me. I'm loosening the chains, the doubts, the regrets that you'd pile on the shelves of my heart. Your charm rearranged the notes of my heart, changing the rhythm to something more desirable by your terms. For a while, you made it summer in my heart. You made the dusty clouds dissipate with the light from your deceiving  sunlit smile. For a moment, I almost forgot that I preferred winter.