with the tiniest glare, the lights form human figures wailing against the liquid mist. here, i sit, abbreviated, past midnight, with fingers counting long lonely days. between sighs i forage history, between numbers i create perfect memories in order to exist here, now. but, without proper burial, the secret of my darkness thrashes in silhouettes against my will. my perfect memories tipping over exposing open wounds that ooze empty gestures. here, i assimilate with the brutal silence in the corner.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
"I begin to think there's nothing i can do: like the city, i belong to the living dead, i am a corpse that still breathes, a wretch condemned to walk the streets and pavements that can only remind me of my filth and my defeat" (Orhan Pamuk, Istanbul: Memories of a City)
Saturday, March 23, 2013
the street lights walk past me. the pavement glows with a hint of red. you echoed my name softly, delicately, honestly, faithfully, insistently, obsessively, hollowly, elongating the promise. this shallow thought hums suggestively. but it wasn't my name, but the sun descending, burning me, in the name of caution.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
gentle hands cross to stroke the sunlight cradling your eyes. sinking letters narrate secret sorrows at dusk. feverish hope rises with the clinking of glasses against the nestled moon. the words, the letters, the sounds become a frail attempt to fill in the absence, your place. it's a jarring heatless silence and i'm sorry for my abruptness, but this absence always returns in blackness, insistently invading.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
what can we do with loss but try to find it, pronounce it. roll the rs even when the word is already gone beyond the procession of fences, the frightened warriors, the dried tongues, and the honeyed pews. seek familiarity with all the breathless sensations invoked--the candid scriptures, the missing hands, and the secrets of the gleaming ice.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
i think of you, not often, but often enough. the thoughts diffuse like a broken string of beads moving down the staircase you may be descending or ascending. the beads fall nonchalantly in a linear manner, aligned and rhythmic, into an amorphous space. i delude my self with an illusive familiarity: you are alone, of course. the beads have disappeared. at the precipice, surely you think of me, too. the walls are narrower than i first perceived. we disperse facts and anecdotes. since we are on equal footing now, i have to confess that i am now thinking of death and you must be too. it is the epicentre of this building--floating, gliding, metamorphosing, alive. nothing can reverse its movement. my angst arises and i begin to falter; you are now difficult to read, you always were. i notice the brown creaks, the evasive dust, loose hair, broken hairpin, torn note, and muddied foot prints on the stairs. none belong to you.