Write.

Write them.

Write them all.

Write those short sentences.

They sound damn cool, man.

You’re iconoclastic, dude. A classic. Already.

Pretend you don’t remember when you ate.

Write it in your scruffy journal.

While eating burger and fries.

Word-filled beaten journals.

Thirty pounds each.

From Amazon.

Man.

twice before you fell quiet,

and in each small fist of meaning,

i could not say enough.

you pressed your heartbeat

to my fingertips.

i let it falter.

A stone

I can’t dislodge

In the pit of my stomach

Every time

I wake

To the empty space

Here, the trees stay the same, the flowers bloom in kind for one day, then weep themselves into the night, disappearing in scattered trace.

Emerald greens clash in peridot sheens, aquamarine is not the color of the water in the vase, but the color of the sky, while the vase is made of loving clay and the water pool reflects but the hues of life left growing when human eyes wander to other kinds of gaze.

I don't know these birds and they don't know me, but they still sing songs to wake me in the dawn and remind me I'm still alive despite the grief.

Glass for bones and gold for skin, I strip this useless royalty in exchange for steel rods and sturdy canvas so that I may be useful in some way during this travel.

Homes and houses, stargazing platforms and rooftops, in the night it is as though you spilled your precious navy ink into the sky before we decided the best option was to throw salt and sparkles to remind us of the good and bad in this tiny universe.

To be fair, the unchanging tropical seasons here on the other side of the world, nor the four seasons back on our side of the planet mean anything to someone like me when as much as I am at my happiest appreciating the little things in life, I am at my peak when I can share these views with who else but you.