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relationships

unwanted

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me

unwanted orchids, you left me ceiling dazed so

now i don't really care


solo sheet tossing, semi hoping you’ll appreciate me

i know it's kinda dumb when morning’s done and

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me


ignoring plans and heaving hope, left to my own devices

i felt a build up; if you feel it, it could be meant to be? nah

—now i don't really care


i find you sucking smoke, eating words at the back of the party

i’m speaker bound, been begging you to come my way, but

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me


you were running round rain drenched over there

i got myself soaked waiting for you to embrace me, so

now i don't really care


take your sighs, swoons, needing stares elsewhere, elsewhere

—are you better babe?

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me

—now i don't really care?

NB: text incorporated from the lyrics of Arlo Parks’ ‘Cola’ and Yuni’s ‘Fall in Love’

our weekly call

i wasn’t sure when to begin

the post-its known by heart were stacked, folded, bent and hardly sticking

i had rehearsed the night before, i had played in loops worst case

scenarios: neutral responses dashed down in a scrawl

were top of the pile

an email sent the night before to soften the blow

had evoked enthusiasm;

he mentioned it first, providing prompting—

my motor mouthed monologue

an outpouring, out of order, of excuses and i love yous

to let him know about new deadlines, some opportunities, no more plans

his glass emptied as i came around to vocalizing gratitude

eight years i’ve been away, for six months they thought i was to stop it

he jokes of scotch to fill his chakras,

while i search for meaning, ‘still only in asia’

no more pretending to re-schedule

i don’t believe in time

i am here and gone

a park

a spot subtropical:

first breezed in unwanted

cutting humidity with knife knees

searching while staying

where it’s been paved


a sunday gazebo filled

with unknowns

invitations and exchanges

uncomfortably gazing past—

there must be more like yourself


an old vietnamese blanket

added hopefully

to shape of foreign wrinkled sheets;

placing self then self-consciously

alone among a tribe


beneath since that time

pinned palm trees

your cooking & your cutlery,

a pile of books, homebrewed coffee,

strong speaker, same crimson and mustard woven blanket underneath


at peace

as one without your pack;

a few years and finally

memories overturn in day haze

gutteral gratitude, belly down on

yellow leaf peppered grass



perspicacity

brought before the sun shafts,
senses lit

squinting at certainties
covered in unanswerable questions

asking in the throat,
if soreness when swallowing

should disappear
if refused such constriction?


pondering beneath lids,
if vision when natural

could heighten in mind’s eye
as if on inner journey?

contesting wrists,
if sensations when wrought up


could be alleviated
if stillness once more was common?


wondering of lips,
if sought numb and cold


could ever be relearnt
if those ghost kisses were buried?


challenging the tongue,
if these textures of morning


would slim in size
if night’s palpation is omitted?


will daylight,
shredding and sharpening—


while we try blinder, stiller, duller
but shrewder—


ever escort us home
as whole again,


or are we condemned
to be outwardly shone and sore?

contusion

—after sylvia plath's 'contusion'

 

the girths of the seasoned girls hold secrets

bare, oily expositions in subtropical sun

the past's darkening repercussions sub rosa

 

what was rose swiftly goes to lilac and lost denim,

in a week will be chartreuse, ending in fawn