a today

these are the days – unfiltered mouthfuls of air, an unremitting force in and through your system. water breathes through you, bearing a resistance similar to a blunt knife slicing into an ice block of defrosting butter. today, the air we gasped upon each inhalation was an age old carousel of stale recycled waste. still, I got up and went on with the business of – living.

reminding myself of the lives built on love and sacrifice, unceasing suffering and a singular lotus, abloom in the gunk of brown mud. towards sleep, I watched as your eyes grew themselves deeper into the trudge of an elongated well. held back the coins i had wanted to toss into the maker of untold dreams and fervent prayers. listened, as the pitch of your voice sloped into a parched damp of burdened worries. there has been such struggle in my daily doings, simple gifts such as listening, speaking, eating, moving is tied to an invisible thread, threatening to snap at the softest jolt, a gentle tap.

then, i spoke to myself in the dark. it is not in spite of suffering, that we grow. it is because of it, through it, and with it. warmed this illusion, in the heart of my palm as the adulterated faith within me, drifted.


my palm, a gentle smear

across the wells of your

hollowed cheeks, such that

all doubt and fear may be

cast out, it’s presence;



I, ground my knees as

etchings into oiled wooden

planks; as the soil of my

sorrow drips, filling the fine

lines of our foundation.


the eventual decay

of mortality, fills my

mouth like a flock of

white doves; leaving

well kept

our palms clasped in an

uneasy disposition, and

fingers wound into a spiral

of enclosed memories; are

these the only tell tale signs

we know of well-kept silence?

to forgive

will you look – point blank

into the iris of mistake,

loosen your pursed lips,

unwind your iron heart;

to the sway of forgiveness?


we laid with our

bodies slinked around

different worlds, your

desires; a gapping distance

away from mine. yet, still we

grew in unity. cradled with

the open, giving palms of

limited time and infinite love.



our fingers stiffened around

bamboo poles, peeling bold

blue slithers of plastic worn

with age. slivers of brown hay

reach into deep gravel as they

recollect into soft stumps; shaven

straws of grass; strewn across our

patio pavement, snuck into refuge

between strand-thin cracks. there

was only the soft, muffled sound

of shuffling slippers, as the knobs

of your knuckles crunched with

grip upon each sweep.