Today

The sun is
a whisper through the bones.

The ocean ahead,
the city behind.
I belong to neither.

I close my eyes.

For a moment,
there is no purpose,
no past,
just the wind,

weightless,

carrying me home

to nothing

and everything.

(Kennedy in August →)

Baby's Breath

You tilt your head,
catching something in my face

I have only seen in ripples.

I blink.

The lake trembles.

You don’t.

And just like that,

I am coming undone.

日蝕

光芒悄然逝去。
一隻渡鴉漂浮於幽暗，
雙翼描繪
沉默的邊緣。

樹木佇立，脆弱如骨；
冷漠的天空蜷縮在內。
我在這漫長的日蝕之下
等待、
思索––
陽光是否曾屬於我？

渡鴉盤旋一次，
或許兩次。
我無法分辨，
她是迷失
還是自由。

Trip

The night caught in my teeth,
it does not have a name.

What was I chasing?

I promise it was on the tip of my tongue.

What did I find?

A memory I’m not sure is mine.

The shadow pulls over me like a blanket.
Whatever it is can wait.

Aquarians

Sundays, borrowed from you

but I always forget to return.

I almost tell you about my mother,
how she drinks her wine in a coffee mug,

and my father, how he leaves
before the dining table is cleared.

But we have learned never to ask each other

questions that don't belong to us.

From my lips to yours,

an apology.

The rest of us
untouched.

triangle of sadness

everything i wanted you to tell me

dissolved in a breath of salt.

this year was a cup

half empty.

i am only ever water— 

one part ocean, one part rain,

endlessly dwelling

in the labyrinth of blue.

each step forward is swallowed

by the tides behind.

i woke up from a dream  

(in which i spoke a foreign language),

to the vowels slipping

through my fingers like vapor,

and the words returning

to the sea like storm.

my longing guts

reach for the door.

on the other side is a season—

she can leave or linger if she wishes.

oh alien planets! they never

have to know what comes after spring.

but my moon pulls me back,

the more i push, the more i drift.

like the ocean, i return

to where i began.

I Wish I Could Go Back to the Two Times I Loved You

Sitting at the two ends of your couch, we were guessing the colors of our eyes. What a dangerous game. As we moved closer and closer, the bourbon you poured got the best of us. I didn’t know chaos could be so quiet.

And once, you came back from your trip, and showed up at my apartment unannounced. You showed me the black and white films you developed. I had never understood their aesthetics, until a photograph of me came up - a Saturday morning at yours, still in my pajamas holding the cup of coffee you brewed me. I never saw colors the same way again.

Interstellar

The anatomy of constellations on your couch -
our skins mantling two solar systems, one running
endlessly after another but could never get there
fast enough.
Our chests exposed like two caskets 
holding pain as if it was all
we were made of.

Ambience tapped on your window,
you let Winter swallow it whole.
I stared into your eyes and remembered darkness.
So I begged you to set me on fire
until my bones become stardusts,
dissolving into the night
into you.

You poured us your favorite scotch as you watched
me burn,
then you rained gently on me
like early summer that tempered the flame.
My body, so honest, I am a walking overdose of pain.
I can't lie to myself. I chase it again
and again, and again.

Aren't my legs tired of running
in an orbit I don't belong,
my arms tired of reaching
your hand that won't open.
I swear this is the last time I comedown
like meteors poured from your cosmos.
I know now, I can't hold what won't hold me.

Self-portrait

Some years have escaped

between the chase.

We can run but we don't have to.

Remember how much violence it took 

us to become this gentle,

and how much youth it took

us to become this wise.

There are two hundred thousand words in our language

but a million more to ourselves held behind our

teeth, reeking of profanity

and tobacco. When the smoke loses

its density, we can open our eyes

and we don't have to

be afraid. Our skins reflecting off the sunrise,

tomorrow is on the cusp of a breath.

We can drive to my studio in the city

and make art of ourselves -

my version of me in my leather jacket,

your version of you with your cigarette drags.

Each brushstroke,

a little bit of love and a little bit of intoxication,

we forgive

ourselves for everything

we did not become, and we don't have to pretend

it didn't hurt.

The Boy

I’ll be the wallflowers you saw and said // you loved in the movie set // I’ll be the printed sky // in which your ravens fly // the vocalist singing on top of her lungs // in the band you no longer play the drums // I’ll be the only motion that is found // in this picture-perfect paper town. // If you can’t tell me lies and you can’t speak the truth // I’ll be the boy who cries wolf for you.