When it’s drizzling outside

When it’s drizzling outside
and the world has a crust
of your gaze.

When it’s twice colder for
a Thursday evening and a ghost
of a wail escapes your lips.

If by chance you
are clawing letters on the folds
of your skin leaving tatters
of bone and flesh within
your fingernails -red and
pointedly strained- as
well as, blame the
indignant circumstance
of pitter patter on your
window pane,
I would only want you
to know one thing:
I am irretrievably
for every single
fucking rainy day that
leaves a trail of grey against
all your lovely evenings
such as this.

there is no need to be afraid
of water tracking down
our side of the glass
where it is
far more warmer,
and time is slowed
to a skitter of a breath.
Be brave.



A Thousand 5AMs

Get out of my head, Goddammit.
It is nearly 5 in the morning
and I am reaching for a book
to claw out slivers of your voice
from the back of my mind.

My fingers tremble. 

I am not yet ready for you
to take me someplace else rather
than the bubble I had built
to surround myself against
men like you who smell of
chocolate and sunset breeze.

My eyes close.

I am drunk again with dreams
of a thousand 5 AMs spent
watching the dawn creep slowly
above silhouettes of apartments
and rushing laborers – our thermos
filled to the brim with coffee.
You, capturing the pink sunshine
and on the valley of your spine,
crook of your neck, warmth of
your lips I burn with my poetry.

I drop my book.

I am high again on the promise of
your name, your attention, your
dreams and fears
-your whole existence.
This is unhealthy. My darling, I
am dizzy with so much wanting
that I am left with nothing but
daydreams of a thousand 5 AMs
spent unraveling threads of
who we used to be. Stitching
and unstitching in the early
morning hours when we’re
supposed to be asleep respectively
breathing into each other’s warmth
and subtleties.

My breathing slows.

You have made ashes of my lungs,
my dear. I don’t think I can
forgive you for making cigarette
smoke off my hair and eyelids. Don’t
think I can let you let me
weave a handful of 5 AMs
before sleep finally overtakes me.

But I always do.
Always will.

And while my pillows catch fire
to my nightmares, you are
both honey and whiskey
to my 5 AM delusions.


Being slightly in love with you

It is terrifying this slightness.

Being slightly in love with you
frightens me terribly.
I am not a woman worthy of poetry
or songs or Polaroids taken and
taped on walls and refrigerator doors
-capable, fiery, nothing less than
a bundle of morning chatter. Warm
and lovely.

Nonetheless, you are.
You are worth
a thousand more.
You are nothing less than
a drink of sunlight or
a pocketful of memories
kissed by starlit skies.

Do not be slightly in
love with me too. The earth will
shatter underneath my toes
-the sharp remnants breaking
my eggshell of a heartbeat, the
spaces between my fingers will
start to beg for even a slight
smolder of your own -calloused
by strings, made lovely by
afternoon sips of tea.

I might be slightly -and
only slightly- in love with
the thought of you and
all the times you close your eyes
to nap for only a minute or two
but why am I am hearing God’s
whispers of tomorrows
flecked by pointless
unending conversations
that began in our growing list
of phenomenal yesterdays?

Why am searching for your shadow
in my bookshelf and dreaming
of Decembers and Februarys? Why
am I whispering your name
like a prayer in the middle of the
day and biting my lip at the
thought of yours and yours
on mine?

I am slightly in love
with you or maybe
just maybe
much, much
terrifyingly and


Please be okay.

Please be okay.

But if that’s too much to ask.
At least talk to me.
I’ll give you all my days and nights.
However long it may take
for you to be better.
We can curse at sunrise.
Drink whiskey by sundown.
We’d smoke and drink coffee
every midnight -if you’d like.
Or if we’re feeling classy,
sip Jasmine tea in the afternoons
when we’re supposed
to be busy.
I’d take you to museums
and we can weave stories
out of portraits of old men
Or make funny faces at
children playing in the park.
I’d take you
to bookstores that smell
of dust and history
and love.
And we can read
in between creaky bookshelves
-our knees touching.
We can order take-out and
sit in the middle of a field
at 9 pm or so, perhaps
somewhere in the city.
And we’d stare up and pick
our favorite constellation
in between Coke and french fries.

Please be okay.

But if that’s too much to ask.
At least let me in.
I won’t burn your toast again
I promise.
And I’d let you pick
the music we’d dance to
every single morning.
We’ll dance hula
to every Bob Marley song
on your playlist or
open up some scotch
to Armstrong and Sinatra.
Maybe organize our very
own wild rave party
-just the two of us.
Or I guess spend
the whole weekend counting
the number of tiles on
your kitchen floor.
As we sweep back and forth
to stories long ago
and tales that are yet to be.
We can talk about politics
and argue whether
we should have another gallon
of chocolate ice cream
-or vanilla.

Please be okay.
But if that’s too much to ask

I’ll be here.