dust

here is a dust of feelings in my palm

i will pocket it knowing 

that it exists again

here is to longing - and wanting, and missing
there is withdrawal tucked in the corner sheets of my bed

the only thing i had left was your hand to hold on to

for what felt like the shortest way home.

L'étranger encore
Finding solitude in the unknown
Yearning for the presence of the known
Comforted by the rhythm
Of my own moving mind

While memories
Appeared and departed so briefly
From the window of train
To offer relief


-Dec26th 2015 en route to London from Paris

sound -

i would tell you
that i miss the sound of your heartbeat against my own,
woven in and out like threads.

especially when i am drowned
by the sound

of my own heavy thoughts

no matter how utilitarian we try to be - 

the curse of choice is a sealed envelope of uncertainty

but then again, i am often left in doubt

questioning of my own moral compass to begin with

& in the ashes of fiery chaos & midnight yearning - love was unspokenly hidden somewhere.

a tune

For every clothes and skin peeled, the time has come to slowly pick them up from the floor. To shrug off as nonchalantly as we can, as if everything was just a dream - a sweet one, in fact.

And I can write this a thousand times over, but it will not erase the truth. That there is nothing harder in life than turning our backs to people we feel most strongly for, forcing us to be strangers once again.

There is pain in wanting something at your fingertips, but knowing you can't have it all - for it can never be entirely yours.

Everything was borrowed to begin with, with a loan date marking an end.
The book is read, and now I have to find my way to leave to rest on the shelf.

Where there is silence and glances between us - there will never be regret.
Only a breeze of nostalgia, of what should and could have been more, but neither of us dared.