Scars —

graveyard of a heart’s cry,
the numbing metallic taste
like the blade that slid by.

testament to how emotional wounds
hurt — lacerate — more than
any physical turmoil — scars/suicide?

no matter how strong you become,
they’ll always be reminders
of how weak you once were.

The World in Her

If you could choose,
she started, softly, spinning the globe
as if she controlled the world
with just her index.
Where would you rather be?

What she did not know was
how her body was a map on its own
how every kiss was a stamp
a different one each time a different
feeling experience pleasure place
Her hair like freshly fallen snow
Her gaze like the auroras
Her heart rhythms like the oceans
Her memory the permanence of photographs
Her. The breathtaking beauty
of infinite novelty
and the sardonic irony
of goodbye.

Paris. Definitely Paris, I replied.


Head to toe a work of art, but
Excruciating not to be within reach.
Listlessly gazing over into a distance, as if
Longing to be somewhere else.
Over the moon, perhaps, so let me take you there.

But all I have are these few words,
Except I’m too afraid to say.
And all I know is that
Understanding you is like crossword,
Two words that will meet at the latter.
If you aren’t that difficult a puzzle, let me
Fix you, let me
Understand you. Understand this.
Lean near now, and pay close attention.


Our conversation stops.

Your name no longer lights my screen up, and my heart no longer skips. And again as I relentlessly search for you, I find your name submerged below all the others, among strangers and aquaintances.

If only it were that simple, to archive you into my peripheral. To delete, as if you never existed.

“just promise me to be happy, ok?”


Broken Hearts

When glasses break, they shatter,
into a million tiny pieces of matter.
Once whole, now hollow,
never to be one again.

When dawn breaks, the earth splits,
the sky hues from black to blue.
The lights creep, the birds tweet
the dawn of a new beginning.

When hearts break, no sound they make,
except, the beating, from its being,
yet, what is felt, is more than breaking,
a yearning, of simply, disappearing.

At First Sight

“Which one should I get?”

She asked inquisitively, first without looking up, as she buried herself into the back of the chair before leaning to a side. Her usually oceanic eyes nestled under her furrowed brows as she contemplated between the pancakes and the burger.

“I don’t know, but the pancakes look good,”

I replied, and I saw her smile for the first time as she closed the menu, how her cheeks seemed to blossom and her cerulean eyes gleam. As she leaned forward I saw a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, and felt a million more fluttering inside my stomach.

“Yeah, was thinking the same thing.”

I smiled back.