Come February,
lanterns hang
in bursts of neon red and orange,
when smiles smear surreptitiously
and faces gawk in contempt.

The room stretches longer,
and shadows blush a shade darker.
I gird myself in the sheets waiting,
for the cut that follows the fall.
The stench of tobacco and phlegm lingers droopy,
a pebble daggling on a thin thread by the uvula.
I imagine myself turning blue,
lungs wrung, like tablecloths over a parched sink,
knees wobbly, like drunkards disorientated.
But I know better.

Come February,
the sun still sets
fist-planting on our faces,
in shades of scarlet and gold,
the subtle hints of goodbyes.


I was never a good man.
But I am merely one,
of flesh and cheap wine.
I choke back a word,
because my mouth is full of splinters,
and the air is flammable,
and my veins are gasoline.
I need a light,
I need a light.

“If it’s important, don’t let go”, she said.
“I won’t”, I promised.
Not because love triumphs,
but because years do.












Inertia 2.0

I’m struggling to find closure that this life is about to end and that a new one sits on the near horizon. Comfort has a way with shaping one’s behaviour and one’s desire to change. 

I am never adventurous. Yet, I try anyway because I know experience shapes perception, and perception moulds opinions. And I want to be wise. But fear stains and sticks, so no matter how much I tell myself it’s going to be ok, there will always be a voice hounding at the back of my head.

I’m not ready. I never am. At least, I tell myself not yet.