I knew that since the first moment I met you, I didn’t want to let you go.

On the rooftops, I see you. I touch you. I listen to your voice I the wind. I see your tears in the waves. Your hair is the ocean I sink myself into.

The road I travel is the breath that you take. I taste, your blood, I walk, in your smile, your pain, my agony.

I hold you and you disappear.

I remember the music inside you, when we make love to the melody of the moon. I remember the stars when I sleep in your whispers. The air, our air, the dream, our dreams.

I never want to let you go. You fly away.

I catch a glimpse of you in the crowd. I don’t want to get lost in your lullaby. You are the one who first makes me. Creates me.

There is that river peeking in the corner of the street. You are the hill I surrender myself to. I surrender myself to you.

I will hold you again. Someday. Everyday.



The Clearing


In the clearing he stumbles on a tree trunk, but he does not fall. He sees a spring, crystal, quenching, not unlike the brunette girl bending over it. She drinks, and sees him. She runs. He tries to go after her, but the only thing he catches is her shadow and the fragrant whiff of her figure.

The next day he comes back, and the girl is there too. But this time he tries to talk to her. She wants to know about her. The girl looks disconcerted, anxious, but she answers him anyway. He asks her name. “Drucille.” She looks as lovely as the first flower that blooms in the spring. He asks about her age, and she looks right at his eye, smiling sadly. “Follow me.”

He is captivated. He does as he is told. She walks really fast, he almost can’t keep up so he jogs. He remembers his mother and little sister down at the hillside, fire blaring, pot boiling, waiting for a fat deer or juicy sluggish rabbit he hunts for supper. Then he smells the air around her hair. The day is old and the branches of the trees are long sharp fingers of the Devil himself. The moon peeks from its hiding. He follows her deeper to the calm darkness.

She takes his hand in hers. He shivers. “Welcome to my home,” she breathes.

Inside of the shack is warm and balmy. Her father, mother, and two little brothers sit around an empty table. They all smile, he smiles back. “Welcome to our home.”

Drucille must be an angel. She comes from a family of angels. The shack is so warm and comfortable, and the warm chocolate drink her mother gives him makes him all giddy. The aches on his muscles disappear. He even forgets about the bleeding cut on his right forearm caused by the thorny plants he passes on the way to her house. It throbs, but his head is too light and his insides are too warm. The pillow on the table would look out of place if he was sober, but it just seems so nice to rest his head there. So he does. He doesn’t see the glint of the knife on his side, or the glint in the little brothers’ eyes, but he does notice Drucille’s sad smile. Why are you so sad and so beautiful, angel?

Lotus Blooms

Antithèse, by Victor Brauner (1937)
Antithèse, by Victor Brauner (1937)

Lotus, your name is written in the language of the stars. You painted the sky with the colour of your smile; it was blood red. I am breathing the ground suffocating in your aura,

the rainbow in the sand, the shorelines of the broken shells, bubblehead bubbling jaunting
gargling amazing sharp shreds jagged edge tangy scent copper tongue
escaping curls touching fingertips. I am so artificial, aren’t I?

“exquisite corpse”

Petal modelling—unrelenting, releasing, immigrating. Electricity when our gaze met.

Lotus, your name is written inside my wrist, I carved it yesterday, using shrapnel of our past.

-Auckland, 22 October 2015

Memento Mori


He already knew that things wouldn’t be easy, but he had never thought it would be this hard.

Sighing, he leaned his weary back against the decrepit bench, probably as old as he was. Hand on top of his walking stick: black cedar wood with a polished handle because he didn’t like those grubby metal-type that made a loud clang whenever he bumped into something. The wind is silent, the afternoon was falling, the babes on the playground were dispersing one by one to the arms of their loving parents only to come back the next day and wreak another havoc on the sandbox or the jungle gym. He paid little to no attention to any of them, as his mind was too preoccupied with the same feeling, same smell, same touch, same everything that was no longer there ever since she was gone forever.

Half of his heart, part of his breath. He watched the life diminishing from her beautiful eyes before they were closed, forever, he watched his tears dropping on her hand, grasping his own tightly, the tears dropping and then sliding down to the sparkly gleam of their wedding ring on her brittle finger. “Goodbye, my love,” she said, barely a whisper, before his life shattered into a million tiny pieces.

This playground, where he was now, sitting there but not really there, is where she said yes. What felt like an eternity ago. They danced under the streetlamp after, laughing merrily, she couldn’t hold back her ugly cry (that’s what she called it, but for him she never had an ugly cry, never even had a single ugly moment). Not even when she said her farewell, a skeletal figure on the hospital bed, with countless tubes over the sinister beeps of the machine. She was beautiful. Every day. Every moment. Even now, when he closed his eyes, and opened it again, he could see her dance, smell her hair, feel her soft fingertips caressing his face.

The night has arrived and the same streetlamp where they once danced and laughed and were infinitely happy gave out a feeble light to the bench where he sat, while the montage of her smile flickered across the opposite wall like a neverending loop of silent movies.

love | hate



You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.”
Julie de Lespinasse

oh god how she hates him, and she knows that he knows, and she’s glad that he does. and he’s there, he’s always there, in her dreams in her mind in her every fucking breath he’s there. she hates him with all her might, she wants him dead, she wants him away, oh how she wishes him to care.

yes she wishes him to care, but he doesn’t, and he won’t, and she hates him for that. for all he is. she hates him to death when she knows hate is only love wearing its carnival mask.

and she knows he knows that too.

(she wishes he could only care, though, so she wouldn’t hate him this much)

– June 1, 2009



The bed is my least favourite place now that you’re away. It has become cold and distant, you know. How it used to be so soft and warm and comfortable I can barely remember.

The chairs and tables are mocking me, jeering at me, and even the TV doesn’t seem to be so friendly anymore. It has refused to entertain me no more and watch me drowning in pathetic silence instead.

The kitchen is a graveyard; only ghosts of your laughter echoes across the room. The walls are eager to trap me in desolation, while the fridge stands haunting like a hollow hole.

But it is the mirror I hate the most of all. I hate looking at the loser who’s staring at me back; the world’s most remarkable idiot for letting you go. I have to restrain myself not to hit his sorry face.

Please come back.

Symphony is you, and I am nothing but tuneless melody too unstable to even form a song.

– August 22 2009

Langit Biru

Langit was a boy, beautiful boy, whose eyes as sharp as pieces of shattered glass, whose smile as rare as snow in a droughtland. Langit means sky, Biru means blue; in his name I found two of my favorite things, and in his soul I found love.

Langit was a boy, whom I love, whom I despise, whom I could never understand,

Langit said he wished to be born as the sea instead of the sky. Laut, not langit.

“But I like sky more,” I said. “The blue calms me down. And there’s the stars.”

“I’m sick of the sky,” Langit said. “It is never going anywhere.”

I was too afraid to ask, “So you’re leaving?” because in the silence I could taste the word yes.

Langit means sky, my sky, and on that day I learned that it was falling.

Langit was on the beach. I knew that it was the end, because he was smiling, smiling at the sea.

“This is me,”

Then langit became one with the ocean, until the blue no longer has limit, until the sky was sunk by its counterpart, until Langit’s stares and touches that never been, disappeared, consumed, swallowed by the endless depths. But he was smiling nonetheless.

Langit was the name. The name that remains. The name that stays. That never gone.

110212 | because I miss the beach and you.