If I am lost
It is because the hand
That guided me knew not the paths.

If I am hopeless
It is because the well of uncertainty
Is bleak and bottomless.

If I am dreaming
It is because life is tantalizing,
Unsullied, when woven in the ether.

If I am angry
It is because my dreams
Become blighted by the tyranny of living.


In front of that vast ocean,
I only see myself.
Not you.
Not her.
Not him.
I only ever see myself in that dream.
The waves crash into waves,
What they bring never stays.
I sleep by the shore,
Where the seashells sing a soothing song.
Some days, I fall asleep like a newborn.
Some days, I am sleepless – a convict, restless
In the cradle that turns into a prison.

Featured Image: Bermuda by Winslow Homer



You do not say a word
Yet, I fall apart.
I come crashing down
In this space between us
So immense, this distance
That devours every word I utter.
This space that cuts off
The sight of your face
I chase an afterimage.
You do not say a word
Because you are not there.
I know.
I know this by heart
Still, I fall apart.


Suspend the space around
So nothing gets in and nothing gets out
Attachment is a cruel thing,
Building bridges underground
Without you knowing.

Suspend the space about
Let nothing in and let nothing out
Longing is a sentimental fiend,
Entangling you in a web of lies,
And before you realize
You cannot move an inch.



I dream of the yellow sun
Of green leaves
Of you
Like light peering through the holes
You are scattered throughout my monologues.


In another life,
I am iridescent
My canvas spans the sky
You see me shifting colors
Every time you step outside.


Our parting is momentary
In my reveries
You are ever present
We return again and again
The ebb and flow of two oceans
To the same shore
Where you are mine
And I am yours to hold.

Cutlass of Time

Eternity is approximately 80 years long,
And life is a train with only one stop to make.
Walk hand-in-hand with shame.
No one else knows you more.
Mourn not:
The love that does not see the light of day
As some things are only yours,
And the friends who are for a season.
Seasons change, and trees die too.
Rebirth is not a transcendental revelation
With a gloriously golden hue.
It comes in pieces,
Slowly and in silence,
When you are waiting at a red light,
Or in a half-empty classroom,
Staring at the ceiling on a sleepless Wednesday night,
Or eating breakfast by yourself
On Sunday afternoon.