November rain.

My candles are still unlit
sitting in the windowsill
a summer gone by
half a life gone by
reckless smiles painted on the walls
of every room in this room
and your hair is still on my floor
your hand still on my door
pulling it closed behind your tiny frame
hiding a world of heartbreak
obstructed from view
all I see is you


We come in peace, and we leave in pieces.

You tell me you’ve seen it all,
“Haven’t you seen it all?”
you ask me,

“Haven’t you seen it all dissolve?”

“Seen the stars of the night sky
burning up before your eyes,
reveal their flickering lights
as pure disguise?”

“Seen snow melt back in to rain
landing in puddles on the dirt,
understood how every new terrain
transforms into hurt?”

I always thought we were birds
high above the lands,

And you tell me I’m right to dream,
but wrong to wish wings instead of hands

That feathery features is a
fantastic fantasy,
but it’ll tear our skin apart
if we keep fighting our reality

‘Cause even the quickest kiss
might lead to fatality,
and not even broken hearts
escape the laws of mortality

“We come in peace,
and we leave in pieces,
like a fold-up sheet of paper,
cut along the creases.”

Infinity cheeze.

There’s no shape,
no color, no texture,
to describe infinity.
There’s no warmth
or cold. No end and
no beginning. Even
ideas of time running
out run aground in
the face of infinity.
There’s no telling
what infinity is like
and what it is un-
like. There’s no
telling how it came
into existence. Yet
I never doubt,
staring infinity
right into the eyes,
when I catch you
looking back.

Simple love.

“It’s the simplest thing when we think about it,” his eyes in animated conflict, trying their best not to spoil the dream his lips were about to tell, “how easily we can make this work, just like breathing; it’s the most necessary things, like eating, breathing, loving, that don’t even take any effort at all when we do them right. It’s only when we hit upon a bumpy road we even notice that we’re doing these things. It’s not until you get a cold that you think about your breathing. It’s not until your throat is sore that you start questioning your appetite. And love flows easily, as easily as this, only when we forget about tomorrow and just drift with it.”

She buried her head in the depths of his chest, trying both to listen to his heart, to where all that romantic nonsense came from, and to tear it out before it all became too much, would become too real for them to escape this thing they had. She felt his hands playing with the strands of her hair, turning them around as if examining their degree of reality.

“There’s this philosopher,” he said, as he so often said, “who claims that something’s reality is determined by our ability to sense it. That my hands are my hands because I can see them and use them.” He turned his right hand around before his eyes before letting it fall to the center of her back. “But I don’t think he quite appreciated how different that makes the world for each person, depending on what they sense.” His hand moving in circles on her back, her arms starting to grip him in a tight hug. “Because surely I’m sensing a very real thing in this world right now, love, that only you and I can feel. I mean, sure, other people can feel love, but they won’t feel this love, not like we do.”

She tilted her head upwards, catching his gaze down upon her. Her legs moved, her arms moved, her face moved up right in front of his, matching his smile. “Let’s teach your philosopher about love,” she said.

Halfway to a dialogue.

“There’s a place I want to take you. It’s back home, right down by the water. A small pad of green grass and a sandy beach, a long jetty reaching out into the water, giving the most amazing view of the islands around it. There’s a bench for us to sit on, if we don’t just recline in the grass or sit on the edge of the jetty with our feet in the water, watching jellyfish follow the stream beneath us. I rarely swim from there because I’m oddly afraid of jellyfish and they always travel in great numbers there, like a horde of them, sticking together, trying not to get lost in the ocean. I’ve never understood how jellyfish function. I think that’s the reason why I fear them. I often fear what I don’t understand, like most people I’m sure. That’s also why I’m sometimes hesitating with you, because this is all new, and I don’t know where things go. I mean, I am usually pretty good at telling the future, but that’s because it’s all been mapped out for me so far. Now, with us, I have to make decisions I’m not used to. Decisions that matter. Decisions that form lives. And I don’t understand all the implications of those decisions, and I’m afraid of making the wrong ones, just as I’m afraid of picking up a jellyfish that fights back.”


The last remaining part of a person, long after the physical body has left the room, is the ghost. A gust of wind, a soul searching for sacred halls, a will to live on or a desire to escape. The ghost is the last indestructible part of the person, looming in little things that earlier would attract no attention. But the fallacy is thinking that the person has to die for its ghost to roam the room. A soul can be split by the smallest of actions and left spread out over the world as tiny monumental reminders of who was once here, even as the person lives on in some other place. It was one of these living ghosts that I trapped in my room.

Now, the thing about all ghosts is that they don’t announce themselves when they’re left behind. They wait for you to find them. Nothing dramatic happened here, no murder, no crime, we just left the room, and I came back alone, everything seemingly exactly as we left it, no immediate difference to be noticed. But still your spirit hung in the room, like the dampness of a wet jacket; indiscernible until you touch it. It wasn’t until I started preparing food that I realized it. There was something more here. Something else. Someone else.

The conversations started all by themselves. I no longer recall who spoke the first word, but the ghost and I came to talking. About the world, the food, the plans ahead for us. I started feeling as if you had never left. The ghost would follow me around all day, from when I lay lazily in bed, trying to drag me out, until I went to bed again, tugging in close to me and whispering in my ear. I neglected my rational sense apart from a nagging thought wondering how you could disappear so incompletely.

As the days wore on, the ghost became as much a part of me as it was of you. I started wondering if my soul had split partly into a ghost as well, following you, since I could make room for your ghost inside of me. In my craze I started treating the ghost like the real you, offering it food, trying to look deep into its translucent eyes and searching for a hand to hold on to. I never noticed how insane it all was, to love a ghost as more than a ghost. I just felt it. And the feeling was real, the belief just wasn’t.

One night I woke up bathed in cold sweat, and I couldn’t feel the ghost beside me, as I had gotten so used to over the past weeks. Its weightless body’s weight on my bed suddenly lifted, and I threw open the blinds to let the moonlight in, its beam casting a white wave of light into the room, revealing anything there and not there. But little did I see that could be used to figure out where the ghost had gone. Not even its disappearance could be seen.

In the morning I went looking at all our favorite places, both inside the room and out in the world. I went to our parks, our shopping malls. I went through the kitchen cabinets and out to the open fields. Even though we shied away from beaches, I still turned over each and every stone searching for traces of you. But little did it matter. A ghost is a ghost until it’s gone. Then even the ghost turns into mere memory. But what is a memory if not also a ghostlike representation of the world as it happened. What is a memory if not an excuse to stop making new ones.

I packed my necessities and boarded a plane. If I couldn’t find your ghost, then maybe I could at least save you from mine. And maybe, just maybe, I could finally exchange my haunted memories for a real life if I could rediscover you.

European nights.

Dark blue summer sky and clementine moon, I’m indebted to your unseen brushes painting the world. They say gravity bends even travelling photons, and it must be true, for even when you’re not here, I still feel your weight in me, and the colors tighten in, a rainbow spotlight cone shining down, enhancing this private moment of remembrance to a universal melancholy of stars lost from their nebulae. Stuck in a home until we’re stuck without one. The struggle in every being and everything, being of a kind when day breaks, being necessarily on our own when night comes creeping like a blanket over our cage. But what is a fantasy felt can be as real as the waking pinch on the arm, and we’re never quite alone as long as you are in me and I am in you. We might be out of our nebulae, but we’re just passing through. Dancing our very own two-sun waltz, forever creating constellations anew. I sense you here, in the night sky, in the haunted moon, even in my own reflection I see you staring back. I sense you in the darkest rooms, whispering in my ear to hold your hand. And magic strikes as I grab at nothing but feel your warmth.