Bad Laundry Day

Shadows of man all over –
the floors, in the closet
I left open to exorcize him,
yet he’s out there, in your love.
But he’s no ghost, not lost
as this transparent stain
on my clothes. I can’t wash so
I do my hair, I think I’m pretty
enough to turn off the creeping
spirit, but no – he’s taken over.
Within your eyes, he came
divine, like an idol, or a bust –
all roads lead to his offerings.
I wash my skirts again, having
lost, in every manner he is gone.
Where he homes I cannot haunt,
and my girly hands fade my touch.

No Sleep

My deck is hinting that I require someone as reliable as the King of Pentacles. Or maybe that I should aspire to be like him. Or perhaps all I really need is some form of immense stability – Something sorely lacking this month, and the next. My current deck tends to be a rather harsh Mother that understands me better than I understand her.

I have been trying to keep my infatuation in check. Friends who know me know how I describe it nowadays as a pie I cut for many wonderful individuals, the intensity of it reduced in this manner. Except that by this point I am now cutting more pieces for a singular person, and alarms are ringing alongside with allure. She is incredibly talented and precise, not that I can understand any of her nuances.

Maybe I should write something about illusions. My namesake is filled with exactly that.

Something like infatuation is riddled with ideals, even the idealization of flaws. I know this, and I will have to restrain myself until the day I am able to drown in work and distractions.

A great thing to note would be that I remain grateful to have found my current group of friends since the past year. I cannot say how lucky I feel to belong during these years of limbo.

The Four of Pentacles have come up. It seems like I really need to unwind my grip on things.



Listening Post

When the city is too small
for the heart, a walk in a bar is
travelling the horizon of the moon.
Each crater a landmark of progress
but in the same shade that is
unreliable since you circumvented
twice. If craters were large enough to
contain our warmth the universe
compensates by echoing loneliness –
Still, no one can hear the moaning
or the smell the alcohol that clogs
the futility of memory, the taste of
names that spill off your glass onto
the lunar soil. The next civilization
will question the evidence, likewise
aching for why aren’t there more.

Small Talk

My chiffon floated your irises;
Your raised glances were gifts to
a well of emotions kicking and
shoving to provide space. This
dress almost couldn’t contain
the breath I had imprisoned,
just so my eyes could escape
their corners to meet yours
tracing frills and sewn-in flowers
along my curvature. But it was
laughter we blossomed into –
The fruits of which an excuse
for us to face each other.
Your name clumsy on my ears
but those blue eyes were how I
recalled a cloudy day. I dared to wish
you meant ‘french kissing’ not as
‘the french way of kissing
as a form of greeting’
after we shook hands, so I
diverted my attention to your
dress pockets and their rarity
since it was impossible to find
my tongue cuddling against the
warmth of yours, anyway. Before
we parted at last I was an oriental
embracing western customs –
Your left on my right, vice versa
Until bold lips added blush to
my cheeks, softer than my brushes,
and I returned the favor, memorizing.