Let the goldfish

Let it

Let that sink in

Let the goldfish do their thing

Let the water wash away

All the wounds that bleed.

(more drawings here)

The coming silence

  I have learned to be wary of the silence that rests upon my lips sometimes.  Every silence has its own taste, a distinct quality from one to another. I revel in getting to know each and every one of them, appreciating them and weighting them before my eyes. But there are silences I prefer to avoid, whenever they approach there is always a different air about them. I used to be afraid of awkward silences but that has changed ever since I got introduced to another silence, the silence that befalls after a certain delicate yet distinct line has been crossed. I'm afraid every time this kind of silence engulfs me, when it rises from within me and washes over everything, it takes me over with the technique of scorched earth, stealthily and surely.
  When I become silent like this,  a page has turned and in the past I've firmly closed books that I have never looked back upon. And though it was unpleasant, I have not come to regret it yet. I'm afraid because when this silence stirs, everything else goes dormant.
  At times I wonder whether each time there are parts that never fully awaken.

Things that made me unexpectedly sad

I developed
a set of films
and realized
I didn't take
a single
picture
of you.

You'll understand when you get older

I was promised
of the land of understanding.
That I'd know
when I was older
but I grew up feeling old
and my skin
is now thinner than the paper
on which I used to dream
and rust has grown and spread
over my soul
and I
can't claim
I know any better.

Shared beds

I can't sleep next to others anymore.
I'd love to say
it's because they are not you,
that I grew half-dependent
on your body next to mine.

But this premise fell apart
and the lack of you was merely
the final nail
on the wood
and now, you see, I wonder
at the probability of it all.

Deprive a person of one thing
and soon they grow an allergy to it,
it goes hand in hand with obsessive hunger.

I grew used to
never sleeping beside you.
Sleeping next to others
deprives me of the absence
of the shape of you.

Except that too
is fading.

Purgatories for love

Some times I wonder
what would it be like
to touch you once again?
To get a glimpse of
your tender heart,
to see your eyes filled with sunlight?

They say old loves
never die
but I get the sense
it is not so.

Instead they get stuck
in the purgatory of souls,
they resurface in between
the new moon and the old.

Still there I guess

Sometimes the heartbreak is still there
Or maybe it never really leaves.
Instead I overlook the cracks
Until they start creeping up
in every new step that I take
And the gap feels almost
Just as big as that time.

Except that now
There's not even the ache for you left.
Just the gaping hole that stayed behind,
like a mute mouth hanging open.