Fluorescence—like empty hallways
of purple forget-me-nots & boxes left
behind for fingers to brush like ghosts.
You and I are lapsed in this space:
liminal. We embark, separately manifesting
our dreams: important and somehow
forgotten. You don't question anything, somehow
the thought hugs your body like the curves of hallways—
every angle and shadow manifests
pushing us further to the left
of the bullseye of our desires, spaces
kept hollow for traveling ghosts.
Have you ever felt ghosted from yourself?
I ask myself this same question, but somehow
it feels so different coming from the space
between your lips and mine (about 6 inches), measured by hallways
and my right hand in your left.
Smoke--fading and evanescent clouds--manifests
to obscure your pupils widening and manifested
as your heart beating inside by the little fists of ghosts.
I lost myself, each part of me left
inside singular boxes in a warehouse somehow
unnavigable: an ocean or a hallway
too barren a walkway trapped in the spacetime
continuum. Astronomers and physicists have yet to space
out where exactly my wandering thoughts manifest
as echos kissing the facade of 4 am hallways,
voices from the lips of ghosts
(about 6 inches), but yours somehow.
The church took Galileo's middle finger and left
it for centuries forgotten in a box even though his spirit left
to move beyond us, rotting, to a space reserved
for mostly celebrities and 27-year-olds, somehow.
Will you keep parts of me, too, to manifest
my being and preserve my ghost
as a souvenir to fill your heart's hallway,
like photos cascading—leftovers
from each detour and memory—to fill a space
somehow not quite full of yourself.
Stages of decay (*work in progress)
knowing that the universe as we know it
is as finite as the ridges on your fingers,
the dead skin on your lips, and the peels of
oranges (the powdery remains finding rest
in the creases of fingernails),
gives me a freshness of discovery,
awareness and liberation.
every list I've made
and the ones I've lost
can become lost forever in a vast sea of
the dead sea is Earth's lowest elevation point, yet
holds so much to seek out.
i sink in Jordan, not yet mummified, but
wishing to be wrapped in the salt of my years wishing for what lies ahead.
unaware, there is no life beyond this point.
fill me with all of your worst dreams
and i will fill you with wanderlust.
everything happens so much
when bursting with reality.
death like feeling too full after a mediocre dinner
eaten in excess to marble the host.
beached whales feel the luxury of their bloat
only able to lay down and rest in the end.
gorge yourself with life's pleasantries
like koi fish greedily sucking in.
move your lips, but with purpose.
the bloat you feel is just hanging on to what =
couldn't be accomplished.
dying hobbies, the projects started but hung onto
like a menagerie of what ifs. maggots.
hang up your coat.
throw in the towel.
allow time to absorb,
iii. active decay
then wring yourself out.
this is a period of greatest mass lost.
liquify and become water;
become oceans, rivers and streams.
consciousness leaks and vision blurs in
what is remembered as fantastic,
each memory a tear, a dew drop, a death
of what once was.
when i was a young whale, not quite a calf,
i swam with other whale-ings, whailing while
barely treading water.
i was not pushed in, but fell this time, to save you.
drowning in that moment was peaceful and still because i was with you.
sprinkler parties aren't the same as rain dances on summer concrete and
nights better spent sobbing.
iv. advanced decay
on my cadavar decomposition island
i would open a wetbar.
i would build us the house we looked at,
that wasn't a shed,
with 3 potential bedrooms for 2 potential people.
in your arms, i would build myself a thousand times over, hoping that you will brace and reinforce me.
this time, its a reunion like death that's permanent, even if not planned that way.
but the cards decided it when you asked that
one summer night.
ask the suites questions that become prophecy is never a good idea, though a
very good idea when you only want
a pleasant dose of confirmation bias.
I don't mind being biased with you.
Adam, and Eve, Damseled
find one who can steep you
into melrose tea—
can’t help but to stop and
come kissing, little letters connected
through space and .
it’s a sitcom of us, but with more
hush and stops
to stay high.
ask yourself what the difference
between aaj and ask are to
your brain’s autocorrect.
you rang and reminded me of all
the heightened vowels ending
each phrase, as if to question
the accents of unknown tongues.
stop and say “hi.”
carry on, or bar me.
stay high and navigate
hushed, now beckon.
Poetic translation of “aadami aadamii se milataa hai”