We, in our present state, still longs
for the scent of skin and the feel of
diving intramuscular or slipping subcutaneous.
But, you chose to contradict-
saying that you would rather enjoy the
sight of us blending with rust in that
little box you labeled ‘Sharps’.



What bothers you
is the flow of IV fluids-

like reruns of the humid
air in the month of December.

Then, you remember something
less of words spoken

and more of a pain that
tracks the shutters of your heart.

By tomorrow, everything
will be ordinary-

the scent of roses, chocolates
and love letters.

I, too, remember the flow
of IV fluids-

fast enough to wash
away memories.

Before Sleep

My index finger
runs the curve
of your lips.
Catching up
with the hymn
of trees,
outside the
window pane,
swaying veils.
Breath against breath,
into this make belief
Eye meeting eye,
searching for
answers given.
Skin touching skin,
covering the
spaces in between.
This is a conversation
and a travel
in trance.
We own
everything, tonight,
before sleep.



The letters stitch
the color red,
reminding her of love lost.

Flowers, overflowing,
that shadows our eyes-

passing secrets overtime,
now and then.
The fast forward motion

of this phase,
a riot in double-

Yes, Valentine’s day
like red crayons
and love letters.

I’ve seen the mixture.

Trials and errors
or chosen themes,
like dreams.


Like Coldness

An afternoon without sun,
like coldness
warming your skin
in an open pier,

and your smile-
sweet as sweet,
a tease of your lips,
a constant reminder

with each memory.



(after watching Isao Takahata's Grave of Fireflies for the 10th time)

as bombs hum their lullaby-

you are there, in the dark,


sucking on marbles like

sakuma drops,

your eyes sunken not with

hunger but with longing.

above a hill, Seita catches

his breath wondering if you're safe,

as bombs hum their lullaby.