keep this simple love.

once again, you heard me. how, i don’t know, i wasn’t even speaking to you but to someone else. i finally get it. i’m still looking for solace and reassurance in a place that i know at an instinctive level isn’t the right place for me, was never the right place for me, no matter how skin-deep seductive. and it’s the skin that responded, the skin that always responds.

i’m acknowledging the safety in you, and all i have to say is thank you. for your patience, faith, belief, and love. thank you for that picture, those charcoal lines. thank you, so much. for all that’s past. and all that you hold in a promise to come. every once in a while, a word/sentence/piece i bring into here and now owes its presence to you. and your assurance of support. thank you for the stories. thank you for these (you might remember):

I now believe that you were a construct, a bizarre collage of the characteristics of those who came before you. true names + star signs + repetitive destructive energies. Even the dysphagia. Your eyes, I had seen before. Everything about you was a magical fabrication. I only regret not stealing the sketches, the ones with those marvelously twisted energies but I guess that’s the way it goes. Your constant little bird left a golden-edged impression on my heart. At least I kept a memento. And I’ll keep on having your dreams.


My heartbeat echoes the 808 echoes this scream that emerges from a bloodied face like the liontamer’s. Exposed skin invites touch invites the sting of the whip invites the healing that comes after the punishment. Funeral parlour fumes solidify. All of these honest observations feel like the needle’s journey over bone, the eye of the needle drawing a poem guided by the body’s memory mapped out in permanence.


You’re my magic and I miss you. Got 17 candles in a drawer, star-shaped. Their tips were once in chocolate, remnants from a birthday celebration. Red, yellow, purple, glittered into stardust, crushed, mixed with powdered sugar. Games of treasurehunt in the night through a red haze. Switch to blue for vision, lighting crevasses with technology’s in/outs. Smile. That digital glow always reminds. When did another haze come? Perched on wood, writing dreamscapes. You’re my mystic and I miss you. Each space contains echoes of your noise, shadows of your lines. Next time, you be a tourist.



Post-confessional, walking away from the booth, post-redemption, pre-absolution, condensed for the un-necessary: it’s time to walk away, don’t look back. Walk toward.

But I know I’m not the right one to mention this.

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