i hear you're skinny now,
with hair,
long -
hanging over your face
like when i first met you, the only hair
that i ever liked.

how can you feel a gush of familiarity for a face you haven't seen, that
you probably won't ever see again.

you are everywhere today -
in the film at the cinema,
a cannonball on the sidebar of the internet,
in the speech of another stranger walking next to me.

at night i was feverish and i dreamt of following you and the traces
of you -
of finally gathering up my courage to listen to our song but
i could never catch you you always left and when i arrived
you were never there.

how to love your depressed lover.

Last night I thought I kissed

the loneliness from out your belly button.
I thought I did, but later you sat up,
all bones and restless hands, and told me 
there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo.

I never know what to say to these things.
“It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.”
“Please don’t go away again.”

Sometimes you are gone for days at a time
and it is all I can do not to call the police,
file a missing person’s report, even though 
you are right there, still sleeping next to me
in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house 
in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders.

Except in this case I am the intruder and you
are already locked up so tight that no one
could possibly jimmy their way in.

Last night I thought I gave you a reason 
not to be so sad when I held your body like 
a high note and we both trembled from the effort.

Some people, though, are sad against all reason,
all sensibility, all love. I know better now.
I know what to say to the things you admit to me
in the dark, all bones and restless hands. 

“It’s okay.” “You can stay in bed.”
“Please come back to me again.”

why am i here. how did i get here.

reoccuring dreams

you're there, in the corner of the room, of which i can't bear to turn my head up to look at.

áo con mèo.

i still dream of you,
still as clear as if it was only yesterday. that in the colour of my guilt, i tell you if you touch me i will die. i will evaporate from condensed feelings that i can no longer tell anybody and i will die.

in this sense i have nothing to complain about.
say whatever you want, whatever you think i deserve. but that's just how it goes, things happen, time happens, life happens, other people happens. it was what it was. and it is what it is.

funny how when something like this happens to me,
i neither freak out nor lose respect, i just weep until my love dissolves.

i will try to protect my image of you and respect the you i remember and loved.

Don't touch me. I will die if you touch me.

 - Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita