I thought I could shove you
to the back of my closet,
make you another skeleton with cracked
bones that were never able to mend.
But when it was midnight and my room
was as dark as the moon ridden sky,
I could still hear your blood pumping,
and the sound of your fingernails
clawing at the door searching
for the missing piece of your heart.

I thought I could ignore it,
and silence your scent that somehow
still lingered on my skin.
Until I realized no perfume could
mask the shadow you had casted on me.
So I unbox your pieces
and step back into my old life,
realizing maybe we weren’t dead after all.
The sensation of your lips touching my skin
once again was the warmest my iron lacking body had felt since the day I left.

It’s midnight again,
but I’m back in your room.
It’s as dark as the moon ridden sky,
yet there’s starlight drizzling over your face.
All this time I refused to believe that we were made of the same stardust,
until I finally saw our constellation
finding its way back together.

Dear teller
you
with ten fingers
two eyes
and a mouth
find the next nova
to go super
and from there
trace the galactic map
back to me
so I can
go
and
discover
the freedom
outside
a personality
that isn’t just
Lysol and Clorox
and just maybe
I will also
see you
more than just
ten fingers
two eyes
and one mouth…

You captured my heart in the waking dawn of a warm summer morning.
Gold flecks caught in your eyes, shimmering like pixies in the sun.
Running through dewy patches of newly blossomed flowers, I felt newly blossomed too.
Under trees and in between leaves,
I found love in your body and soul, enchanting and enticing,
Throwing my head back laughing at everything you said to me.
And I saw it in your gypsy smile,
That this wasn't to be forever,
But I didn't mind.
I laid in meadows of wildflowers and spelled your name out in petals, until the wind swept them up to some place far away.
The taste on your lips like sweet nectar dripping onto my tongue,
Your hands soft and gentle, caressing my face like a child.
I unbox my nostalgia, piece by piece like little russian nesting dolls as I speak of you now,
and consider you almost a dream,
so long ago and so brief,
It almost doesn't feel real to me anymore.

I put my journal
in the sealed packing box- Now
inspiration’s struck

Someone asked me if I ever thought of ending everything, what made me stay?

Of course, most people will say... because of him or her. But, will my answer be different if I say mine?

If I ever thought of ending everything, and what made me stay. My answer is the future.

I find it solace to answer the future, cause if I ever think of ending everything I'll just think of the future and forget everything. I'm not living for the present, but I'm living for the future. I mean, aren't we all?

When someone made a promise, aren't we waiting for the future? When we decide to do everything, aren't we going to the future?

Basically, everyday is the future. It's like a mystery gift we unbox everyday to find out what's inside.

The future make me want to stay. The future is a gift I love to unbox, yet it maybe happy, sad, or anger but we can always put it on the trash if we don't want it right?

Did you realize something? It's a metaphor that I love to say too. "Put it on the trash if you don't want it." Basically, forget about the past.

Sometimes we might feel like we don't want to continue, or sometimes the opposite. I feel like that too. But what always make me stay is the future, we don't know what the future holds and I still want to unbox it. I still want to hold on for the future.

the room was empty but it was filled with boxes of our things.
my hopes and dreams for us,
your secrets and lies.
you kept them taped up tight,
and every month that passed by you began to unbox them
one at a time.

a sunshower burbles —

as it trades hemispheres

with the opposite side

of a street.

laid out bone-dry,

sped into the sheering turn

of a mountainous cloud.

the washed out curve

of a storm’s prophesied

color — left to unbox its monster.

commanding the ogling eyes

of fish schooling town.

their sloughing motions

opening and closing like

purple umbrellas —

prepared for a far off

land too near the refuse

of fading shelter.

the template of promise,

poring over unmanifest

milk and honey.

silence becoming the culmination

of a mass exodus —

a version of itself long

to roam.

until another version of

itself thoroughly destroys it.

all that would be the aghast

ramification of encounter…

disposed of as neatly as what

was, and then is not.

an unrestored space — where

there is not much to tell.

another purple entelechy

that went on as if

varied.

here is a whole…

that does not oversleep

when sounder than sleep.

resurrections are not singular

events — they can not be,

if death is to be revived

as much as exhausted.

which is that whole,

finally yielding no place —

where a storm’s color

may be prophesied.

gone too — purple entelechies…

gone too — The Purple Entelechy.

all beholders see beauty now--

in an eyeball.

the gods were entertaining, there it was

like a mint after an imperial feast.

with more presence than a whole body.

it can blink once for yes, & twice for no--

if only to break up omniscience.

it is swaddled in mulbery silk, that

creases complexity smoothened to

simplicity & back again, as in a wakeful

sleep.

a gift placed in a self-luminous white box,

more benevolently pensive than milk.

whose fourfold hatch will unbox, to see

what was seen in it.

could you love an eyeball?