[untitled] is a recollection of being stuck in a poetic loop. Days become odysseys, objects turn into portals, into memories and into longing. Feelings made lowercase as the poet follows through lost --- unable to find title neither to love nor pain.

Spring 2020.

(special acknowledgments to the coronavirus)

day 30

the sun filters in through stained-glass windows

over the illuminated kitchen counters, i see you.

the glistening reflection of your hazel eyes

the gentle swoon of your warm body on tuesdays

you stand in my kitchen and smile me out of the room.

in this mirage, i become your yellow sweater

and hug you hanging on to the threads, one to one

i become your deep brown belt and hold you tight—

hold you together as together we stand sunbathing.

the air smells of crisp apple pies and cheap red wine

through ephemeral hints of your wooden perfume

i turn around provoked—honey cinnamon and salt.

against my light wood cupboards, you hold me close

the soft touch of your lips feels a safe harbor found

and even as your image dissipated as i grasp the air

i feel your presence, your smell, your all, your me

and it lingers with me anytime i close my eyes.


fresh air seeps in through half-open windows

and the cold breeze dances around our bodies:

cherry lips over marble cake, tourmaline and salt.


the books watch over our melting silhouettes full

of us, caught between waves of blankets and yawns:

warm, sandalwood beaches and sweetened citrus.


each book tells the story of loving in another tone

stories of lovers past, hidden behind dusting shelves:

immersed in the rain and the smell of tangled hair.


your hands trace my chest in braille and i’m visible now:

each touch tells our story and i’m immersed again

in the smell, in your presence as I flicker the pages


and wonder if there is more to this than to be perused,

if our story can be kept in a novel, a pamphlet, a text

clickbait, designed to leave me hung up on the next chapter


it’s a good book, but the author decided there’s nothing

left to write, though the ink is still wet and the pen in hand,

the off-white pages left blank for me to imagine other tales

other than the ones we were too busy living to write down

and now, they’re lost.


it’s a good book, but it’s covered shut in indigo blue leather:

laughter caught in perfectly folded sheets and open shuts

the light hitting northeast just right every night before we kiss

all the things we had to fight over before, compromise, love

reduced to fiction, out of touch and foreign—


day 308

end of the world

as we know it:


but never enough.


would do it again

maybe caring less,

maybe attaching less

to the image of us 

being together:


bodies on grey linen, open

like candy wrappers undone

our gaze intertwined, unspoken

like the reality that staying was good,

but we were never really going anywhere

but we didn’t have to anyway.

shadows under tulip hues, dancing

like on saturday mornings in the winter

our hands used to interlace, praying

like children wishing for sincere miracles 

but they could not hold tight our minds

that kept on craving different dreams.


would live it again

maybe not needing 308 days

maybe not needing to fast,

to feast only on fantasies

of us staying together


just to realise we were never going 


but we could have:

and our next metamorphosis

wouldn’t have to be the end.


when will the release come?

i miss wandering lost in the woods

only to be found across rose beds, 

sandalwood scents of coral 

and the worn down bench 

where i confessed you my love,



if my arms weren’t cages in disguise

i’d walk straight down on quiet mornings blue

when the shades of mango paint june

regardless of the snow on the ground

and i’d never leave behind your eyes—

hazel, squinted in response to our saline



i miss moving just as that frail girl in silver

at the party we met, where only our gazes

could dance because we were keeping it low:

remember her feathers, her pacific smile, endless

free-swimming across her lips with no regrets?

i’ll never stop thanking myself before lying

for taking up her place in the chaise next to you,



when will you take me outside again?

i can feel the birds singing ella around me

but no more moonlights in Vermont, neither falls

harmonize with your hands on mine, everywhere

tracing elevations on my tanned skin and transpiring

chocolate caramel with himalayan salt as the colour

of turmeric skies merge our shadows into one universe,



i miss eating at the kitchen, especially in august

when the red-crake flew in to warn you about having

too much rosemary in your mac & cheese, it burned

and I sat down, legs crossed on maple wooden tables

unwrapping the chromed teapot i left you as a gift,

but you forgot to take it home with you in march

just as i forgot i had as much sway over you

as that red-chested bird.


if my legs wouldn’t keep me from running

back through the woods and back across time

to find refuge amid high oaks or over your chest,

i’d be less worried with the headlines

and would somehow mourn less not having served you

the peanut butter crumble recipe i learned from grandma,

and though you still have it on paper, 

i’m not going back

to your body.


we’re distant again—no bus, no stolen dates, no smile,

no going back to going back time after time

high on the hopes that one day you’d change

until i did and then it was too late to reverse.



how many times does it take to write

the same poem to you two hundred times;

write it barebones and stretch it long

until it’s different and ever the same;

and though the poet is not the pain

throughout the verses they read the same;

endless, caught in days of wanton

desire for his story to unfold differently.


it is the poem that writes me now

consumed in repeating rhythms, rhymes;

the titles lowercase and dated

just to showcase the waiting that lingers;

the image of the seashore suspended mid-

sentence hints at this effort to stay afloat;

and when i grab a footing to finally end it

i'm enjambed—

written again at the top of the page;



how many times does it take to have

the same conversation with you seven times;

have every time be the one over your bed

half-asleep, inquisitor, purple and deluded;

and whisper to yourself this time i'll let it go

only to find a poem next week saying that you stayed;

foolish, captured in some childish business

of longing for his fiction to ring true.


it is the poem that cheats me now

tracking my allegories, metaphors;

if you pit them against time, they blur

there is no start or finish under this stroke;

each thought of mine is animalistic,

cannibalistic, do you love me is that realistic;

or am i devising, dictating, tracing the you in us,

i'm enjambed—

only ever alluded going anywhere;



how many verses, stanzas, dances, and shit

has it really been ten months since i fell for this;

the poems written long ago were less concrete

but somehow made more sense to the reader;

then the poet was violetear green and indigo blue

and flight was not avoiding never being enough;

safe, but whose verses still lacked that passion

destined only for honeycomb heartbreak.


it is the poems that free me now

from the dramatic irony of our poetic loop;

no more dark bus rides after six to find

nor deep burgundy sexual obsessions to make mine;

and every day now is just a day—no numbers

as there’s nothing to count towards anymore;

solace, mixed in wordplay and lost in commas,

i'm enjambed—

ready to write a different poem.