i saw this prompt somewhere,
asking me what i'd do
if i had nine lives.
and my first thought was—
was i being given a chance
to live as a cat for a while?

sarcastic, of course, it was,
but it really made me think.
so i settled down
and began making a list
of what i'd actually do
if i were to have,
not one, but nine different lives come true.

i believe i'd spend the first
living and experiencing
all forms of art my eyes could pick up:
reading and listening,
watching, looking,
visiting museums, talking to people,
asking the writers what gave birth to their empiricals.

the second, perhaps, i would—
put myself up and forward,
creating the same art
as i hoped i would.
and maybe i'd write
to the length of the night.
i'd create all sorts of felonies,
live somewhere unknown to horizons,
creating my life away.

the third was a confusion.
what did i truly wish to do?
maybe this time, i'd learn
all that there was for me to.
i'd look on and become one
among the smartest people—
to get to know what put them at the top,
and whether it was a life i truly yearned for.

the fourth came easy.
i'd be an artist,
a model or an actor.
i'd climb up high on a pedestal,
look at the faces watching me
from the crowd below,
trying to understand
whether it was really fun
and cut out for me so.

the fifth, i wondered—
what would it be like to live on the roadside,
barely surviving, dying the next day?
i'd want to understand the aches they go through—
those without a home, money, or food—
to perhaps help them better
and make sense of what inspired me to.

the sixth life—
i wanted to spend it being loved,
and being loved by someone
who wouldn't want an other.
just loving, spending my entire existence
there, physically and spiritually,
seeping into one another.
love was it for the sixth.
unknown in the end,
it finished with my sacrifice—
from no one but my lover,
whom i couldn't defend.

the seventh life, then—
i'd hug everyone i come across,
take away their pain:
child-like sorrows, grave depths of despair—
all kinds. and even as i end it,
let it consume me.
i'll have it known that maybe,
this way, the world will be a lighter place to live.
so when i take birth next,
someone could do the same.
and maybe we could share each other's sorrows
and laugh out all the pain.
let it seep through all the shared veins.
and maybe that way,
i'll spend two of my lives together.

eighth—one more to go, and then it’d be over.
so i lived in fear, avoiding getting close enough
to make anyone dear.
i wandered through the nights,
unsure of when i made this choice.
the mornings seemed scary;
i yearned for voices.
i found comfort in the lonely,
slid away slowly,
and let the last life catch on to me—
before i ended it myself,
i know it was lowly.

ninth life. here i was.
and i realized i hadn't chosen the previous three.
someone else made those choices—
who opted, i wondered?
who gave me those experiences i wrote?
suddenly, i realized it was honest:
the past three were lives i never wished to live.

this was perhaps my first.
now, i’m back in the present,
in my twenties,
the past years gone forever.

i don’t know how i spent them,
(i wouldn’t want to remember the forgotten)
but now i realize
all i yearned to do
and the fears i saw coming true.

i’m still here, putting down the list.
i'm going to sleep in tomorrow
and go to my classes the day after.
and i’ll continue,
doing all that i wanted to,
in the nine lives i was offered.

for i could wish,
but i was given just this one.
and i guess i’ll try to live
all of them
in a single one.

(hey. you still there?)

they say in different dimensions
the decisions you did not take
are the only ones that remain
for the you that exists in parallel
i wonder how she lives
is it a better life, perhaps?
'cause it's hard to say i've got a great one

(you know, you should just accept it)

there's so much, though
how do i live
how do i experience
when one decision causes me to miss out on the
what could have been's and the almosts'

(they're not always that bad)

but you say it just because
and i live
the intensity
there's so much to consume
love to give
kisses to be exchanged
hugs to be shared
feelings to be said
movies i'm yet to experience
music i'm yet to hear
books i haven't read yet
moments i haven't gone through

(why do you always think this way, this much?
i feel lighter, but there's a mess within your being)

a storm.
so much to offer
the world's got a turning pov everywhere
and it matters
'cause why would i spend my whole life living
in the same normals
the same feelings
mistakes, foreign meanings, and all the sudden dreamings
when i could have much more
just accept, sometimes go against the flow
why define
when i could be anyone i want

(it's 2:14, why are you awake, still?)

and when i see you
perhaps
after a decade
i'll still meet you with a smile on my face
and i'll be as fond of you
as i am in the present
and hope that you'll look at me
the same way, with the same glance

(just let it go)

but there's so much to hold
and there's like a million things that i'm yet to do
a thousand people i haven't come through
whispers, and confessions i haven't made
memories and feelings i haven't shared

(i've been wondering)

my head goes numb
it explodes the next thing
everything i hid, comes undone
and when you look at me
from a distance
when i don't notice
you'll see
how the mask falls
how i let it grip me
how i just change it all
and i'm the same
but with you
in front of you
i don't bleed
i put stitches, temporary as they might be
and i face you
tell you all that you dream
listen, find every single possible meaning
and maybe you don't want me
maybe they don't like me
but i do
and that'll continue
and i'll fade out
stay in background
but that's how i've always been
maybe, just maybe
there could be a parallel me
where you and i
make these decisions together
and then one day
we wouldn't have to choose
and there won't be a chance of any mistakes or another

(i love being alive)

but the parallels can't have the same thoughts
so what do i say?
admit this is all that i've got
but i'm so much more!

i dream with an innocent kindling
that sears and leaves an imprint
behind my eyes
and if you see it in just the right light
you'll see the hues
all shades — pretty, darker, sometimes a nice pastel
and often, the tiny blues

flickering imagination left to chance
dreaming about crossing the horizons
that weren't ever mine to dance
through, holding hands
i like holding hands
and touch
express it in the way you grip onto someone
say without saying
so different from living without loving

my hands collide
against the glass walls
that glimmer with condensation
from the heat of the moments
and some solemn passion

(but do you believe in them all?)

paradoxes
could be / shouldn't
maybe / wouldn't
i just hope
and hope carries all the trust
like a stream of thought
or blood in my veins
it pulses a rhythm
makes a twirl
slips through, forgiven
hurt me, give me scars
i'll trust,
for that's my part
keep it, betray it, lose it, grip it hard
i'll stay, i'll leave, i'll be present — just not here

(wipe it off.)

i do
and i look in the mirror
see what looks back
i smile at her
she doesn't laugh
she stares
frowns
judges
scowls
fumes
breathes
sighs
looks down

(you let it get to you, again?)

ants creep around the sweet
they're always on the lookout
find it, the smallest of crumbs
and suddenly they're all about
sorrow takes that place
a misspoken detail
sits, waits
grief comes up, surrounds
takes the hold
rakes me whole

(i've got something going, i'll have to hang up)

multiple things
a lot, actually
it's overwhelming
do you live?
or do you simply exist?
is it enough — all that you do?
is it okay — all that happens to you?
i want everything
yet struggle to feel anything
the voice whispers
she made braver decisions
i took the harsh ones
i hope at least she had it easy
if i couldn't bring you peace
maybe you're like her more than you like me

infinite possibilities to one single question
the line goes silent
as if the call has been dropped
but i know you're there
and i know you see it all

do you understand, however?
existentialism isn't really everything this is about
a vulnerability, the kind — i let take over when the veil drops
i reach out, i do
but it takes the stronger to notice, the weaker to hold me through

i keep thinking about it
versions of me
the ones who made perhaps the different kind of mistakes
i don't regret it
they say, "love however brief, is never wasted"
it's not mine, i wish it was
such a good thought
i wonder who wrote

sprinkles of chocolate
coating the forlorn
it's meant to give you the dopamine
one that you need to keep going on

(hey, i'll call you later — breathe for me, and stay right there?)

i've been
staying
same place, same things
the only changes — they repeat
and i wonder
if we dream the same beings
they've mapped my nightmares
collided against the sunbeams
endings ending on a happy note
hide the truth — the ones in real life go

bittersweet melancholies wrapped in stillness
silence is when it echoes
a whistle on repeat, almost
the same tune, the same voice
will you come reach out to me
when i'm long gone —
lost in a vague old memory
can we coexist?
can they do so?
can humans achieve it
and not hurt each other in the process of fitting the puzzle pieces and simply letting go?
but i guess, being roughed up is necessary
i'm yet to find myself
there's just a whole lot remaining

(i don't write that well)

my heart swells
my lungs fill up
how do i go along
knowing i could be missing out on all that just wouldn't be so wrong?

(isn't that necessary? for you to be you, for me to be me.
decisions. choices. wonders. dreams.)

so, i'll live.







(you didn't pick up my call, are you awake & alright?)
...
(i've been really good this side, are you alive?)

The silence
is not deafening,
the flowers
are not listening
to my hushed soliloquy -
and so I speak;

I only ask for an ounce, but
I yearn for more bouts
of domestic felicity.
It's not some grand wish,
no mere flight of fancy -
only a gentle plea
for an interlude
from the monotone
blur of days.

At first, it sounds
so very twee:
layered harmonies
and classical strings,
like an echo of
Vivaldi's "Spring"

But Pomme asks,
"Pourquoi j’y pense encore?
Y a quoi de mieux avant?"
Why do I still think about it?
What was there
that was better before?

In an earlier verse,
I was slowly
singing towards
my dirge.

There’s something about late September
that makes me want to text people
I only miss when I’m too tired to lie.

There’s a moth in my mouth again.
I try to sing and it *****.

Some nights I rehearse conversations
with people I haven’t forgiven.
Some of them are alive.
Some of them are me.

I keep a list of people
I swore I’d stop dreaming about.
I keep dreaming anyway.

I talk to no one
like they’ll answer differently this time.
I wake up with a wingbeat
pressed into the backs of my teeth.

I think I’m leaking
something no one taught me how to name.
It leaves stains on my straws
It fogs the mirror before I do.
It answers to my voice
but only when I’m not using it.

There’s something about late September
that makes everything feel returned,
but not forgiven.
I don’t text them.
I let the silence say maybe I meant to.