And so hatches the idea of sending out anonymous bitter-gourd for cash, cash, cash!
Send as many as you like to people you’re bitter about — ’tis a highly confidential matter

like how you borrow library books
and wish you could stamp your name on one
and say, hey,

this belongs to me.
but you’d never dare.

And now you see someone else borrowing the exact same book, book, book.
Complete with all the creases you made, and with coffee stains from staying up all night

it hurt your back from reading over
knowing you’d left your mark on its tired spine
in her hands,

pouring hot caramel.
on vanilla ice cream.

— it’s what you know freedom and victory would taste like —
sweet and cold, sweet and cold.


i had learned to ignore the meaning
behind each lyrical mnemonic.
the bass alone– it pulls the trigger
to old, anterograde alarm clocks

the bass alone is an agreement
of the senses disturbed by its push.
cadence impulsively follows beat,
a nonexistent hook to false why’s

and true woes that break monotonous
inconsistency, the undefined
habits of defining anything
for illusory understanding.

the bass alone does not have meaning.
its excitement draws from destruction
of reason, curious cat’s tongue damaged
to lack guilty conscience for casual

excuses to interpret the bass
as a cue to unwind your gut feeling,
to replay the track whose meaning we’ve
learned to mutually love and ignore.

the bass, alone, is no more.

i can’t seem to forget your scent;
i’m not talking about your little experiment with that tiny bottle of bliss.
or maybe it’s how your clothes smell.  or maybe just their warmth.
or your warmth.
it makes me laugh to think that i fell
once for the scent of vanilla and the ruby pullbacks of a lion’s mane,
twice for the mobile arm draped half-hug that happened once
or maybe thrice;
that i ran back to those vanilla beans,
now a bit too sweet for my liking, a lion and a snake in one big pullover.
and how your silhouette stayed in front of that mane and i could still feel
your full embrace,
the unkempt strands on your head
between my fingers, half asleep between empty pillow talks and empty
houses and unsent messages with restless nights that got me to search
for your face
in dreamless stupor, only to
wake a bit too early before getting a chance to feel, hear, or know anything.
both in each other’s reach and rarely greeting the Enter key until one day,
time ran out,
and it crept behind my cheeks with
readied bloodstains; it crept behind our fingers and they pressed down
more than once. i was reminded of your antics and the overused commas
that i missed.
and i remind myself to just stay put.
because it still creeps on and all that i can really do for now is try to find
something else that smells like your clothes and try to wait for something
just as warm.

and nothing else will.

not good enough.

hint at the world; give it a wink so it knows.
(at least it knows–)
give me the surface and let your fingertips
chatter away for your lips are too tired.
sketch the scenario in midair–
an enigma that can’t be seen by anyone else,
except, say, you, and, perhaps, me,
with each comma defining uncertainty.

two weeks.

I still can’t write.  Inspired, but mostly tired. I have no muse.

(’tis sad how the next few lines have made me sadder.)

it’s probably because you, in your
entirety, make me happy.

it was reason enough.