I wish I could speak a language,
one in which you didn’t exist.

Then I wouldn’t feel like a metallic kitchen
on a winter morning:
a blue tabletop, one abandoned jar of cold milk,
the dew on the windows and
white oblong tiles with a star in the middle.
Clean. And barren.
I wouldn’t feel like that.

And when I hear footsteps
I wouldn’t think it’s you
And when someone touches me on the back
I wouldn’t turn around and expect it to be you
And perhaps when I wake up suddenly
it wouldn’t be with your name on my lips.

If you didn’t exist,
I wouldn’t be like that thick glass, do you remember it,
the one on the window above the front door?
Still intact but with tremors of cracks embroidering it.
I wouldn’t be just like that.

I wish I lived a life
drawn in charcoal
Then how easily I could have reached out
and erased you from it.

Mud slush love
Two missed calls and
one unheard voicemail love
Bamboozling, money guzzling
bright metal blue machine love
University boulevard and a millenia
of ignorance steeped in academia
Fairy walks through trees waking up from winter
and a deep brown earth love
Eyes drunk with sleep and lips tilted in a half smile with
November peeking through the skin kind of love
Chocolate melting on top of cookies and coffee scorching
the roof of my mouth
Loud music and a louder silence and a contradictory kind of love
A sad poetry, fragmented and defracted by the prismatic kind
of love. Airport lounges and midnight calls to strangers. A residual
life and a “I’m home” kind of love. Chaos and entropy and a little island
full of mannequins. Thirty minutes till I sublime. Two little bees, one plastic flower and a stereospecific kind of love.