et enfin

a croissant
half-warm
on the kitchen counter
i didn’t say goodbye to either

left your city
like a book
i never opened again

a grin you forgot
on my lips—
merci

the sky did try
to weep
but i packed too fast
for weather

somewhere between
paris and nowhere
i whispered to the clouds
you were kind

and we had everything
to make a memory
of june

no rewinds,
just a playlist
i skip
a little slower now

and me,
i’ll keep the dream
a dream,

et enfin
the heart
folds itself

carry-on again

« hey you »

humid june / sweat on your neck / a cologne / i breathed in a little too long / your name / not mine to own / on her tongue // racing pulse and cigarettes / everything smelled like / foolish / or honey / depends who’s asking // i said you were right / just to win / just to lose / but hey you / paris was only gold if / i didn’t blink / and i didn’t blink // you dreamed brooklyn skyline / through your teeth / like a secret / i couldn’t translate / maybe it meant something / in another life / but this one / hurts fine // smoke in your voice / was it distance / or was it / just me / again // in another life / trains have no doors / to get on / just to get off / but even there / i’d still have / waited.

Playin'

 

the sound had hands
i wish
were yours

a breath
inside a breath
still no walls
kept me

i became the room
of our aftermath
mischief in fabric
smells like you

in the sea
of spinning blues
your eyes weren't listening
to the song that
drowned me

Cowboy

the traffic
held its breath

a red blink
too soft
i mistook it for
a heartbeat

grief is a boy
who learned to ride a bike
with the arms of an ocean
wrapped around his waist
pretending to be still

my skin remembers—
your warmth becoming
a kind of weather

and some mornings
i wake
to light
shaped like you
leaving

Small Hours in Paris

I packed
a carry-on heart,
too small for the weight
I never unpacked.

Feelings
are delays,
so I ran on time
and arrived
alone.

The metro sighs,
it knows
no one ever stays.

I walk past lovers,
hands in each other’s pockets,
and slide mine
into my own.

Some cities ache,
some cities wait.

Some cities won’t hold me
when I walk away.

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 →)

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.

Demeter

Mom —

There are things I don’t understand.

Things about love,

the way it clings like wet laundry,

heavy on the skin;

the way it wraps itself tight,

until the air grows so thick,

each breath feels like a battle.

How can something so soft

feel so suffocating?

I love you, but I hate you.

And I hate that I hate you.

It’s a knot I can’t untangle,

a weight I can’t carry without breaking.

You say you love me,

but your love is too heavy—

it presses down,

until I can’t gasp for oxygen.

I wish you could see it—

how you twist into shapes

you think you should be,

only to feel whole.

You say you’re smart, but you refuse to grow.

You say you’re learning,

but you hide behind lessons that teach you nothing.

You’re stuck,

and you pull me

into the quicksand with you.

There are days when I understand

why Dad needed space,

why he wandered into someone else’s arms

to find a place to breathe.

I don’t forgive him,

but I feel it too.

It makes sense now, in the wake of it all,

why he slipped away from a prison

you call home.

Your disease spreads like vines,

seeping into every corner of the house.

It’s the way you need me

that chains me down.

How am I supposed to love anyone

when love feels

like a cage I can’t escape?

I moved out

into a room no bigger than my shadow,

four walls that don’t close in

but hold me steady.

I stare at the ceiling,

and it feels like the sky.

Here, silence doesn’t smother.

It cradles me gently,

gives me space to remember who I am.

In this emptiness, I found

myself again.

I am not running away,

but I’m not coming back.

Maybe distance is the thread

for stitching up the broken promises

none of us has ever kept.

(Hera →)

Hera

Dad —

There are things I don’t understand.  

Things about the oceans,  

the gods, the seasons.  

How atoms spin endlessly in the void,  

how we breathe in chaos and exhale  

stillness.  

I used to think these mysteries were beautiful,  

but now, they are nothing more than noise,  

like static—  

and the voices in my head,  

questions closer to home

I cannot answer.

Like, why do we love the ones who hurt us  

and hurt the ones we love?  

Why does betrayal only bloom where trust once grew?  

At what age does a child learn the art of deception?  

Is it something you taught me without words?

The world owes Mom an awful lot.  

She suffocates us with her giving,  

and I wonder—  

Do you see it?  

Do you know what it costs her  

to fill this empty house with

pieces of herself?

I wonder—  

if all of us are victims of this world,  

who is the perpetrator?  

Is it fate? Is it you?  

Is it me who’s part of the silence,

holding in truth like smoke I refuse  

to release?

I can't help but think—  

Why do you stay in a home full of ghosts?  

Does love spoil, like milk

left too long in the fridge?  

Do lies have an expiry date too?  

Or do they sit, festering, until they poison  

everything around them?

Gravity has a way of making me

feel small.  

Every waking moment, I drag

my feet through a river of questions  

I know I can’t answer.  

There’s a storm beneath my ribs—  

I can’t tell if it’s rage or grief,  

but it’s drowning me all the same.  

I’m standing in the ruins of something  

I thought was unbreakable,  

and I no longer know how to rebuild.

 

Mom has given everything—  

her skin, her breath,  

her heart until it’s threadbare,  

and still, she stands.  

I don’t know if I will ever understand  

what made you tear at the seams,

why you chose to shatter  

the woman who gave us everything.  

And in the end, I don’t know if I can ever forgive you.

(Demeter →)