Do you know how many people
I've killed
in my poems?

sometimes
i apologize so much
i feel like i'm saying sorry for my existence

As  I read your poems,
all I could think of
is ...
Genius.

But that scares me sometimes.
Am I in love with you?
or am I just in love with your poetry?

But then I remember...
we are
what we write.

You left your white T-shirt at my house
and it smells like you, every inch of it

I run my hands on it,

try to hold onto its well-knit threads
harder than I held onto you

I examine its V-neck
and try to make the same angle with my thumb and index
as I used to do when you wore it
hoping that my hand can still feel your heart beat

I rub my fingerprints against its sleeves
and gently reach the armpit
hoping you'd be tickled
and you'd tickle me back

and I'd sigh, as deeply
and desperately
as I ever could

when I remember,
when I realize
my hopes will never come true

and I'd never feel your heartbeat
or touch your skin through the softness of its fabric
I'd never tickle you
or punch you
or hurt you

I would never be with you

and when my tears fall on your shirt
I hold it as close to me
as it can be

It hits me
this shirt... your shirt...
it smells like me now

and I could never take that away

Been a week since the new year arrived at dawn's door
Seven sunrises had passed making way for many more
Resolutions, wishes, aspirations cast into winds of new days
In hopes they'd be carried forth on each dawn's new rays

Let us welcome the fresh air that come
Inhale it deep as reminder that we're luckier than some
Let us embrace the opportunity of time
A privilege bestowed so we could still pen in rhyme

Let us cherish the love from family and new found friends
Shower upon them the gift of verse that never ends
Let us strengthen existing virtual and physical connections
Reinforce them with kindness, fortitude and good intentions

Let us sieve past experiences that mar us black
Dispense with animosity, ill thoughts and considerations that lack
Let us trudge forward into the unknown together
Hands in hands and hearts to hearts into the unforeseeable future

No matter who you are or where you've been
We'll all get our fair share of twenty fifteen
We've all been granted if you'd only take advantage
In the great book of life, on a fresh, brand new page

Do note that this is just ideal advice not so much as a plea
I know the journey is long, arduous and never easy
I hope these words I've penned would lighten your load
Little bites of wisdom (I hope) for the long meandering road

I can't promise the rise of the nightly moon
But the sun will rise where you are; and it will arrive very soon

I am witnessing a lack of creativity
Dragging me through the cracks of eternity
I see a bright light shining through the cracks
Is it hope, or the freedom from hope?
Or is it just the sun creeping through the curtain slit?

No, it's only the sun reflecting on my eyes
as I am dreaming of what is not true
because without creativity,
we won't have this kind of brilliant poetry