Her doorstep was always leafless.
(From her little chair by the window she'd watch...

I still wake up
with a fire for you...

My future is a blank paper
nestling inside a fortune cookie...

A decade of desires
has sunken into bedsheets...

My feelings for you are like poems,
cast into a shameful teenage drawer...

My heart is a metropolis;
tire tracks across its veins...

I see his hands, I see paper cuts
and flowers, I want to trace his hands...

I know loss like a dream I dread
but never dreamt; the spoon that feeds...

At 12 AM, I forgot about the laundry,
still curling in the washing machine...

When we first met, I could name rivulets
after each of my sorrows, see devil's horns...

You spill poetry into your palms
like they're pills of salvation...

... a crack of light
... a moment of fracture...