a warmer climatei tried to write to you todayon the back of vocabulary lists of a language i will never learnheld against the sunlight,'i miss all i used to know' was penned next to bahin (sister)mirroredbut the words flowed all the samealien words stole from my thoughts when i wouldn't say'on saturday i walked twelve kilometres along the shoreline akela' (alone)it spared my ink but caught my liar's tongue redhandedtanned skin makes scars glow brighter and i am conscious of my mistakesi am who mothers point after and tell their children 'she is the girlwho leaves silver sequins in her wake''one day i added namkeen (salty) water to the ocean but i couldn't find it backeven when taking gulps to regraspthat bit of myself'the air here is stifling, bahin, sister,but in the eveningsit cools down
charcoali don't yet know theexact curve of your eyebrowbut soon i mightsketch replicas of youon hand-crafted paperorthe back of acrumpled-flattened-out-again receiptit wouldn't really matteras long asi got your eyes right
Come what mayIf you don't mind terribly, (of course, if you do, I will pay no heed, because you've taught me to be selfish and selfish I shall be.)I shall borrow your wordsand make them my ownYou spoke them, after all, but did not make them trueThey will find themselves much more welcome much more sincerebeing rolled off my tonguebeing pushed through my lips(and this speaks not of you lying, per se,but more so of cowardicewhich I had chosen long agoto mistake for introversion)Worry not,I will take good care of themyour words: come what may But not of you noryour halfhearted intentionsNot anymore
Take me to the seasideI still haven't forgotten the feeling; yourrough hands weathered from spinning talesin my hairflowing through braids like salty windsPolished rocks cushioned ussoft and supple like beckoning loversAnd here we'd lay down our marital bedand hear the seaYou'd smell like summer andthe stars'd be painted on yourfreckledcheeks
InsidersWe used to have this littlejoke between us, you and I:'How are you?' you would say,And I would answer, peas in a pod,'This minute, this breath, this heartbeat?I'm fine, I'm just fine.'And we would move on to other things,But you never forgot, and neither did IAnd your fingers are plaited together just like my hairas you look at me like you're afraid of what I'll doto myself'How are you?' you say, waiting for mycooperation, the fulfilling of my designated role.Peas in a pod, dime a dozen, perfectly timed comes the clue:'This minute, this breath, this heartbeat?I'm fine' I say'I'm just fine.'
A mathematical approachThis was the questionyou asked me'How do you become happy?What is it, exactly, that makes one'seyes light up?'Well I,I wrapped my mathematical mind about itTheorized factors, constant or fleetingProviding life-long pleasure orfalling flat with timeAnd thatwould bring about a big journeya search for better daysIn which the determination to make a big-or-little change isD = 0,6U 13Fwith U = unhappiness and F = fear(but this is just hypothetical because variable fear's uniquely crippling)with maybe some other variables likeS = supportive friends and B = backboneMaybeit's all the little thingswe don't take into accountLike the bouquet of peonies of my desksticking thick scenting flowers in my nostrilsOr just waking up and thinking hey, look,the sky looks beautiful todayMaybeit was a bit different fromjust finding xafter all(secretly, don't tell, I pretended I could read the following
Let the words flowI am losing my grip on wordsEven now, my fingers hesitateat half-formed sentences that seem likea chore to finish, instead of a pleasureCompleting the last stitchestying the last knot of the latestpatchwork-poemsuddenly makes for much less satisfactionAnd my normally almost-empty penis now overflowing with too-much inkCreating ugly splotches on the starved paperthat greedily soaks up my mistakesin deprivation of proper wonder-wordsPlease, pleaseGive me some overdateliterary sushiLet me put my fingersdown my writer's throatA N Y T H I N GAnything at allto once again make mevomit wordsthat smell not of sour(cream&onions)but of,of course, what else butfreedom.