seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States
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seen from Italy
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unspoken adoration
my pen leaks your name in ways my mouth cannot. prayer on the canvas question to the masses. they know you as my fleeting muse, words written with the same fingers i could not trace your outline with, much less intertwine with
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i don’t want dissonance, i want a new recipient. i’m sure your mailbox is full of my untethered postcards and evening letters. mine only has one— from your landlord. he doesn’t live here anymore. and i say, but he did once, didn’t he? the return address loses its purpose, and the stamps begin to decay, but my black ink stubbornly clings on desperately to the parchment yours truly.
and i do have good days. great days, even. but the sun that welcomes me warmly each day cannot change the fact that the skin it caresses so gently still does not feel like my own. and i've tried to bask in the light that is so rightfully mine, but i can only think about the next wave that is to come.
17. barely touched
perhaps the hopeful could describe it as such. hardly, barely, briefly— but it was there.
perhaps the brush against my shoulders held as much weight as a polite stranger's 'excuse me.' kind, yet cruelly abundant in a world where only rarities are meant to be cherished.
i wish to say there was intimacy in the surface you had scratched and all that you had failed to uncover.
i wish to say there was intimacy in the fleeting moments that we failed to indulge in.
— prompt from the @nosebleedclub
to the friends we lost along the way
with a bond like ours, i had expected my departure to come with a type of melodrama that rivaled those in theaters. but i simply watched the muddy dish water whirlwind into the drain. mundane, soulless, yet i wake up tomorrow to watch the same process again. i wanted to commemorate you with a portrait, but the realization dawns on me that we possessed a type of intimacy that was never captured on camera. so here's to the photobooth pictures we never took, and the hand that blurs your face that one time i tried to catch a glimpse through the lenses. here's the chapbook you gifted me at graduation and the hand mirror i gave you for your birthday. i'm sure the readers will ask if we were lovers. well, i certainly loved you.
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it is december and the snow from last winter has not yet thawed, so i will make do with what warmth is left. silence was sewn in openings that lacked your etchings. i asked for a patchwork of what could've been, and tonight i will drape it over my shoulders.
i do not wish to take your hands into mine, i simply wish to sit in the corner in your mind and slip past when the deja vu hits.
truth is, i never wanted to stop dreaming. the mailbox remained empty, but i never stopped checking. just practicality, i told them. just to keep the dust from forming, because no one likes cobwebs.
truth is, the foolishness of delusion never quite outweighed the beauty of it all— to think that one day i could open the flap to be greeted by a single petal. i did not ask for more. i did not dare ask for more.
