Monday, June 3, 2013


In the light of the day,
I fear we are
Much too far,
You and I.

The charcoal waits to erode graciously,
Like a sugar cube on the tongue, 
In drawing the curves of a cat's tail
Or a still eyelash of the same girl
I've drawn since I was five. 

Instead, I pretend that the paper 
And my dusty, grey fingers are
Much too far,
Like you and I.

But when I raise my head
And the sun has set
Leaving no embers
Like my crumbling charcoal, 
I draw a line from my heart
Shooting straight into the sky
Where stars have waited for all of eternity,
One for each of our hearts.
And one for us to meet halfway.

So when the dots are joined
On earth and in the sky,
There we are,
Not so far.
You and I. 


Who breaks away

In forgetting that there 
are two untouchables born
every time touching you 
becomes a taboo.

For I become one too.

Like the side of the glacier that
has thawed too soon from the
rest of the mass,
So thaws a part of me, too soon.
And wrenches away.

Who breaks away

and measures how great
is the fissure that remains,
for it will take looking back.

In acquitting oneself from the whole,
two untouchables are born -
But who shall grab your ankles
and help you wrench away 
From the drifting two?

For I become one too. 

Monday, November 5, 2012


Is the blinking of your eye a greater task,
Is it because the world is too much to take in,
Is breathing ,is  walking, is the beating of a heart - 
the clockwork you forget about,
an unfailing companion from the start,
is the beating of your heart close enough
to ripple your jaw today?
They say the world will not end
with this and that,
not with failing the gargantuan examination,
not with the itch of predestined disease,
not when someone shakes you out of your delusion.
Heck, the world will not end
Even if you do.
But yours will.

What we grow from day to day
is not a new heart or younger eyelids,
We grow memories in the magnitude
that only memories can grow in.
And they become a mirror of
what we want
and what we want no more of

And only memories are visitors
when there will be no visitors tomorrow.
And when tomorrow will be the same as

And beauty is and youth is
a scandal of 

And if the look in someone's eyes
is bribe enough,
what you want is yet not
a memory.
Beauty will follow purpose,
and the time is