Traveling.

A certain Sunday morning
I got up, serenely, from the bed
decided to leave out by the window
packed my blankets well
remembered to turn off
all the scheduled alarms forever
and deactivated all social media accounts
propped myself on the bed
fixed the center of the foot
at the windowsill
climbed up
looked outside
then looked over at my palms
and at the back of my hand
saw wrinkles
traced meandering lines with my other hand
put my foot down
picked up and gazed intently and fondly
at the hourglass gifted to me
years ago, preserved right at the bedside table
sand still sifting through it eternal
found my way back to the closet
booked last minute flight tickets
packed my bags
and left.

Amphibian.

I was the child of the ocean
a brother of the shore
an amphibian
picking pebbles by the day
and swimming naked by the night
What if I walk along the line today
and tell you that I do not
know how to swim anymore?
That the thought of drowning
now terrifies a man who’d boldly freestyle
and lazily backstroke in the salt of the ocean?
I do not know why it happened
but I remember almost sinking once
it was high tide
and I wasn’t too careful
What does one think of
when the froth brims up to
your lips
gushes into your nostrils?
I only remember terror
inexplicable
I was saved
I remember being carried to the beach
in the arms of my mother
resuscitated and resurrected
I woke up, seeing people
and you.
I did not know then
That we would come this far
How do I tell you today
when you are on your sick leave?
And who else do I tell
That it still haunts me
to even wander out into the low tide
under the moonlight?
That I do not know where my home is anymore
That my gills disappeared
And my lungs still fear being engulfed
What if I told you
That it frightens me
when you venture out into the night
and saunter along the sands
loving the solitude that the breeze of
an ocean brings upon the turmoil inside you
that you might find the remains
of a child who almost died here?

What if I told you
that I’m out tonight
skinny-dipping
and determined to swim again?
What would you do?
Would you come out to save me then?
Or would you swim with me?

Sometimes when I stare into your eyes, I fear you would write the same poem for me.

Sadness.

My tryst with sadness
is a bubbling cauldron
of various concoctions of
unanswered questions,
of questions I inescapably
bury my head into,
of questions that take me
back into the past,
I think of simpler times
I remember a carefree
vivacious child
who hadn’t the slightest idea
of a despondence that was about
to drown him,
an unexplained and extended digression
from a conviviality
which I don’t know how to rationalize
other than as life
The past is a toxic landscape
the past is a kingdom among clouds
But why can I not help my
longing for it today?

It engulfs me
It makes me become a person
I do not want to be
But I am not afraid
I have been acquiring armour
I have been battling
myself.

Coda.

Think of the youth,
Think of the twilight,
Think of the dawn,
Think of the old.
We have the time of our lives
ahead of us
but for someone it fades
all the more
nostalgia haunts someone
nonetheless.
Look at the stars in the sky
and think of the earth
and its people, as a whole
we, who shall live, who shall die
together – in an epoch.

Have You Ever Looked at a City?

Have you ever looked at a city?
Look.
Under the roads
inside the folds of intricate architecture
in cylindrical poles splitting
the streets down the middle
by taking apart a food stall
resting at the junction
of pathways that end abruptly
somewhere
in the faces of its people
above the rooftops of glamorous restaurants
on the bridge overlooking the river
And.
While waiting at the cafe by the pavement for a taxi at twilight
Look.
At yourself.
Unearth something.

Have you ever looked at a city?
What did you find?
Who did you discover?

Sandbox.

In a box of sand
You and I
Run along glass walls
leaving behind only footprints
Centuries later
there only remains
in the chaos of the universe
a faint impression
of the disorder which our feet
brought upon the sand, together.
which your breath against mine
wrought upon the air.

Here my fingers traced the texture of yours
and your lips found mine.
Somewhere in the vacuum there still are a few atoms
which carry the lingering echo of your voice
as you told me you loved me.
One of them, out of sheer coincidence
collides with another aimless atom
which somehow bears a resemblance of your name
in my voice.
And.
After all these years.
Billions of them.
We meet again.