numbers, e-mails, rosters

New York at noon
Streaks of men in black and briefcases.

A guy playing sax
Oh, how his long fingers carress every part
How it creates a white space
How it blurs the noise outside
Stillness rests upon the city
My ears hurt, my ears swell

Numbers, e-mails, rosters

A teardrop on my shoe
The bubble breaks, people pass by
In the streets of New York City.

purple veins

She looks at me with sparkling eyes
A gleaming white with cracks of pink
It tells of tales of witches and fallen angels
Of boxes and pictures and pearl necklaces
Like a sleeping baby, I look at her
Having nightmares of closed doors and gaping mouths
Stabbing her with swords of words

Her lips are stitched
She cannot speak
Her cheeks, puffed
And purple
Her eyes, a blank canvass

cookies and yellow lights

It’s the memories that we want to take home with us. We take the good, and we leave the bad, so was the remark of a friend. We aren’t really that close but somehow, we managed to survive the night with zero percent awkwardness in the air between us, save for the first minutes, maybe, at the start of our conversation, when we were still groping for something—anything—to talk about, until we found our common ground: passion in travelling.

I asked her what she liked the most in travelling. She told me I’m ridiculous, “You can never have one single favourite food or one single favourite spot or one single favourite person when you travel, unless you travel because of your dad on business, in which case the only thing you’d be enjoying is the airplane food since that is where you spend almost all of your time, literally running from one place to another.”

I told her I hate airplane food. They’re all full of adult meals. Gluten-free cookies are nearly all I order. Even bottled water tastes like adulthood. It’s bland. I wish it comes in different flavours, like bubblegum dream or cherry red. She said I’m weird, and contradicting, because we were in a restaurant that is supposed to be a place where adults starve themselves with ridiculously small servings of food, trying so desperately to look thinner so other people would love them, but there I was complaining about how I don’t want the concept of being an adult. The interiors were sophisticated and constricting. The lights were dim and yellow, the kind that you would see in an adult’s reading room rather than in a children’s playroom. But this restaurant was my choice. She made me choose, and I made a decision on my own. I decided for another person, just as an adult would. I, myself is confused. I told her my dilemma. She said, “You have to move on, you can’t be one thing forever. Travel with me.”

in alleyways of cities

In alleyways of cities
I run towards the light, catching it
and trying, I am

I’m running in a maze
Blood is rushing to my face
Cramps in my toes, my sole is bruised
My nails are black
Like my mind–a void

I run and I pant
But I run and run
And run and run
Too fast, I’m fading

slurry paintings, floating letters

They hang suspended
Like morning dust in rays of light
Sunsets and orange skies
Pictures and smiles
Portraits in black and white
They frown at me, but why
I search their glassy eyes
An angry sea in the middle of the night
Waves towering over me

crashing

I open my eyes
A white light blinding me

Straight lines

It was a blur
My thoughts were a haze
Someone is slowly pulling my heart away
Something rings in my ear too loud
She speaks but I cannot hear
I remember her apple pie
How her eyes wrinkle at the sides when she smiles
How brightly the sun shines at her face
How as bright as the sun it is
That it blinds me; it’s too much beauty
I cannot see clearly
Because it’s fading
Slowly, I’m burning
Words are drowning in my mind
But my mouth just won’t let them flow
But then I thought no.
It’s not my mouth nor my heart
Because it’s still working, I think.
And then there it is;

A straight line that silenced me.