∅.                                              *

                                                                         .            ✧     .     

    *                                                       .

                                    .                                                 *        


nothing gold can stay; 

                   not even
       Dorian Grey– 

ain’t that odd, though? ⋱


               .                      .

                              ∴                                      .                                                 

( it’s almost funny)

   how the beauty and the money.   °      ✧    . •
            ◦    seem to have initiated an inertial, maybe even
                 gravitational, pull around one another
                 like a chain reaction → a constellation of big.   
                dippers and little dippers           °              .       o        .  
      .          ✧     .     







              *     i loved *u dearly.    *         .               •

                         •                      . 

       *              tidally love locked forever in a memory  .               •

                      of a perfect autumn evening draping starshine

                 •.   sky high before midnight counting all the skyscrapers

                      or drinking in the day time along the High Line. .          ✧    

.                              *                           .

                                                We would’ve,







                                                                          s    .

                                                                           l               .

                                                                              o           .

                                                                                   w   *


                                                                                                   .                in

                                                                                                        .                          s

                                                                                                              .                              l    

                                                                                                                      .                      o          

                                                                                                            .       w

. c

           s        .     *       i         
 *            ✧     . r
  e                .      c



      t              d                      a

                   s         u            *and                        p

                                                         we                      s      

                                                               still    all

                                                                                  ↝   might,

                                                                                          we’re             if *u

                                                                                                       when                     want

                                                                                                              (day                         to,
                                                                                                                      some              *u)
                                                                                                                          know,   ◞

                                                                                                                                  (or whenever…)



◜   .      

 ↘    .       



                         *six pm

*metaphysical merengue

all that’s necessary is a couple of crayons
if you’d like for me to color you a whole galaxy
a white milky pen for the pin pricks of stars
in the velvet mass of vanta empty
the space between all people can see
how we limit so much, and believe we know everything.

how arrogant we must be to say there is no creator.
all he needed was a couple of crayons, and a hand full of mud,
some thoughts in his head, and breath in his lungs. –six pm

first draft*

․ ◦◯

mine eyes traced
the lines of his body
each muscle like poetry
sculpted for me to read.

took my finger tips & followed
stubbled braille of his cheeks
mounted his lap & traced
the horizon of his smile
with my own lips.

*six pm

1. “To the woman he said, “I will surely multiply your pain.”

i believe up until || God cracked Adam’s rib, that man had not yet considered the fact that he was breathing. * i believe some would call this a gift. * we are not born beautifully… everyone must blossom and bud. i am a natural mother, i understand the price paid for life with blood. * || * if there were an element that we should base life upon: it would be carbon, i assume. so why do i base the life i have been gifted on the likes of you? * is it because you are a kiss; a cellular conception multiplied by folds of four balanced betwixt my hips? * a perfect prophecy of proud ancestry proclaimed from the mouth of the royal He … ? * || is it how “now” is an infinity; now is when He speaks. now is where we meet.

2. “Your desire shall be contrary to your husband, but he shall rule over you.”

black, dull, and un•gleaming: life without you. || blackness of bare earth at the tale end of winter. no promise of green except for the old knowledge: knowing storms always run dry of rain; * knowing cold months of winter bring forth warm nights of summer and spring. * || * understanding pain forecasts growth; and love foreshadows pain. * how men and women were never made the same. * || my memories play back like the red glow in the rearview mirror, if you and i were a one-way street. red light in the dead of night dimming every imperfection. these brightest spots where the fabric of black rip open, while “we” faded  to  black like dusk. * || i believe in black holes. black eyes big as pansies, so big they could swallow me up. bold and italicized by ethnic ambiguity. dense in gravity. * behold: you are original man, you are so ambitious, i am was your woman. we felt so endless; infinity masquerading as security. || i found myself staring intent while you flew west, watching your eyes offset the sunset until they were just two specks of dust. * ∗

3. “There too Lilith shall repose, and find a place to rest.”

∗* i believe the apocalypse is a midlife crisis, and an untimely split. ∗ Earth opening beneath the feet of Eden and swallowing every•thing up. || oh and, yes, i believe Lilith was there; her moonbeam smile, her long raven hair. she slithered a pale crocodile into Adam’s bed. Her unblemished curves of childless girth. her cotton thighs coiled around his head. || oh, yes, i do believe Lilith exists. and i believe her burning kiss burned because Adam was fucking selfish.

∗s⁞x pm

heavily drafting // the base of this poem was a confession I’d read on reddit that I had kept in my notes. As I continue to edit this piece however it inches farther and farther away from the source. If anyone has the link please share so I can update with it.




It was 2am when I started to shift in my sheets. By the time I’d accept my fate I rolled to grab my phone and it’d become 5. It felt like it’d become 5 although the night hasn’t quite started to shift into day, yet.

So what, it’s 5am? So what if this was another sleepless night? I fill the void with unspoken poetry and drifting memories. They’re all about you. I think about the day before I met you. The day before you and I swiped right. The days before special days are always exceptionally dull and ordinary, aren’t they?

Surreal doesnt even begin the describe this pit that sits in my stomach knowing its been 5 days and 4 years since that last night I was in your arms.

The ticking of the clock has never seemed to go so slow, not even since I was a child. How many more days must I continue to walk away from you?

We acted on spontaneity and I’m so glad we did. I’m glad I answered that phone call to be met with your deep voice, that *omitted accent, your round apple cheeks — which I desired to bite instantly. Your New York swagger is like no other.

That night we talked for hours, and for this I have 0 remorse. I spent the whole month of June staving off sleep, even though I’d just been promoted at my job and probably needed it. By the time I came out of the post-break up coma they’d already fired me.

In the morning I was greeted with your morning texts bring a smile to my face brighter than the sunrise. I woke up early back in those days. 6am would be sleeping in. Now I struggle to greet the morning glories and I speak in familiar song to the local nightingale. I’m awake with you but without each evening, now.

Now it’s just derivative poetry expressing the intensity of butterflies that sucker punched me. I fell for you like Rome. That red thread which connected your hand to mine is wearing thin, now, *u. Coffee no longer stimulates me and I need it to function.

I’m helpless in this situation, it’s out of my control. I am living in a fantasy prison of my own derision, aren’t I?

I’m so sick of writing about “what ifs”  and praying to God to make them definites. The truth is, I refuse to acknowledge, is that I will never see you again.

So maybe this can finally be goodbye…

⊹ •      . *

        · ˚ °.   ✷ . •        


2am confessions reddit

It’s 5am, another sleepless night. I fill the void with music and drifting thoughts. Yet it always boomerangs back to you. It seems surreal that I’ll be in your arms in 2 months. The ticking of the clock has never seemed to go so slow, the numbered days so sluggishly passing by.

We acted on spontaneity and I’m so glad we did. I’m glad I answered that phone call to be met with your soft voice which admittedly melted my heart instantly. That night we talked for hours, shamelessly skipping on sleep, all through to sunrise. In the morning I was greeted with the reciprocity of expressing the intensity of butterflies that sucker punched us. For neither of us were looking for company that night, let alone looking for  love.Them same butterflies still linger whenever my ears are blessed with your voice, months on from that first phone call… many, many phone calls later, actually.  

But we’re on a thin thread that’s wearing out, of no fault of our own. We’re helpless in this situation, it’s out of our control. We live in a fantasy, don’t we? which is why I surprised you with confirmation of my flight to come see you. I surprised myself, actually. I acted completely on impulse, so sick of us talking about “what ifs”  and wanted to make them definites. 

The truth is, which we both refuse to acknowledge, is that as soon as I get on that return flight home…we’ll never see each other again, we’ll fade out of contact. We’ve already been incredibly daring and selfish to allow us to continue for as long as we have. We’re worlds apart and if the people in our respective lives knew of us and what we are, we’d be shamed. It hurts because I want you to be a part of my life, and for you to introduce me to yours. For you to meet my friends and I yours, I think they would like you, except for the itching issue that our love isn’t supposed to be, regardless of how effortlessly hard we fell for each other, no matter how ‘right’ it feels. Sure, there have been exceptions where it has worked and flourished for other people. But we aren’t so lucky, nor are we so brazen to trust in a slim possibility when there’s so much at risk on the line. That particular aspect of us will always be an uncomfortable topic, no matter how the perception of us will become more  acceptable in other people’s view as years pass, and I don’t expect you to wait for them years to pass until then.  

So for the two weeks I am with you, I’ll bask in every second I have with you, I’ll smother you in love, for I know it’ll be the only opportunity I will have to attempt to express the unfathomable amount of it I have for you. It’s a lifetime supply that I’m being forced to only give a measly two week trial of. I truly believe you’re the love of my life, but I’ve been incredibly selfish enough, and it’s soon time to let you go. I’m accepting of this. I hope life is generous to you, because after everything you’ve gone through, you deserve it all and more, and it’s truly unfortunate I can’t be the one to give you it, no matter how badly I want to. I want to grasp onto you for as long as I can, to postpone the inevitable parting of our ways, but I think I’ve been selfish enough.  

i am
but a
a darling
with his
of the
yearning for
space walks.
the DNA,
into ringlets
in frozen
of pearl
a necklace;
the love
my parents
at least
one time.
to be
well traveled;
in a
blanket of
pine needles
& honey
i reach
out from
earth’s cradle;
longing to
find a
than any
we have
that will
last past
of our
this station
of the universe
is too small now,
we must go,

Stephen Hawking
one of
his usual
of miraculous
the universe
has an
as all
have a
we are
we will
in the
face of
clocks &
will quiver.
by the
of dying
zipping like
ice skates
the rings
of Saturn,
& suicide
our weak
in honor
of Cassini

Or stay
day dreaming
here upon
the heavenly
rains that
rapture the
But i,
i will
try to
paths for
as far
out as
May the
of humans
it farther…
. . .may they
be the
to my




here on Earth?
∗s⁞x pm

My hopes are as follows:

  • That you’ve achieved your goals.
    • (because then I’ll know it wasn’t all for nothing that we let it all go.)
  • That you never see this.
    • (because then I’ll know you still read my poems.)
  • That you’ve found someone who loves you.
    • (because you’ve chosen to travel a lonely road doesn’t mean you deserve to be alone.)
  • That if you do read these poems, that you’re happy for me.
    • (because moving on wasn’t easy, but that’s a fact that I never wanted you to know.)

*six pm

    ..           ..        ….             …               …          ….   …….        … ….



he smiled and assured me
i wouldn’t feel a thing…      ○

marines are the worst, 
they don’t get atta °ched. 
they un-sentimentally.    ○ 
              °                pack
                   :     °     and are whisked  a w a y…

                       •          °
 °    will-o’-wisp.    ○
licking wounds w.
flash fire tongues…

sometimes i don’t follow . 
       even my own wisdom.

sometimes i don’t 
even follow  .   ° 
                     my own.     .         °
                                                            •     d
                                                                •.    r 
                                                                      a  °             •
                                                        s        °    
                                                      .         ○


                   like  that   reoccurring  one 
                          when i chase a trail
                            of  meteorite dust
                                 directly to
                                 i hold the
                             burning embers
                      in my palm. Sometimes,
                   a flicker of the flame  catches 
            and burns down everything i own.


                                        d   u   s   k .  .  .          n



earth quakes
& i give way.

           °                                                    yesterday the sun set after
                                                                 the 7 o’clock hour
                                                                 for the last time this year.
                       •                                          7 is a lucky number.
                                                                                                                          e↠   (maybe i should call you later)

                                       °                         in about 3 hours the
                                 ○                              sun will set on your side.
(by your side) ↞w
To be beside you again
sounds as distant
and above me                 . 
as a slice of heaven.          •

My cheek against                    °
the suede of              ○.
your soft stomach fuzz.   •
I want to place my head
on your shoulder again.

                                           •       i love you, more than friends.
                                                   (i couldn’t stop you if i wanted to)
                                                    i love you, *omitted.
                                        ○        (the walls shift in unnatural ways)
                                                  i wanted you to stay.
                                           °      (every time i hear your name)
                                                   i love you so much
                                       • .       i will stand here
                                           ○      watch you shrink away.

because you deserve
sunsets in california.
you deserve
a stunning woman,
her perfect smile,
in a romantic place.             °

one who didn’t sell herself
short of her dreams.
you deserve to                  °
lose your breath,
youth, freedom,
and to exceed                    .
every expectation…             °

you deserve better than me.
no exceptions.  

 *six pm


i had just read a brief history of time. remember that night? cosmic vertigo took hold of my insides, i quit cigarettes that instant, i crushed my last pack and i declared, to you, that death takes everything.
stephen hawking explained: the universe will have an end just as it has a beginning. so having no more time to waste i told you i loved your face more than any other faces and if there was to be even the tiniest trace of me left behind i wanted it to be the way i felt for you that night.

you blew smoke rings from stitched lips, and i talked in circles around you. bleary and bloodshot our eyes closed. you maybe never read stephen hawking but i know we both ran like bandits from sleep.


earthy smell of marijuana permeated your beard and seasoned our tongues. *omitted, wasn’t it really something? being young and together the way we were. smoke stacked to the ceiling and the lamp glow casted halogen haloes around our heads. don’t you agree how.


*darling, i love you so desperately, when i gaze upon your full moon face i feel the spread of my pupils pulling wide, letting in too much of your angelic light. i embrace the pressure of your body’s presence compressing the very fabric of my marrow as you contort me to your will.

though i don’t dare profess that your tender love, the love only i know, the love that when lost inspired so many insipid diary notes, has ever mended a single bone, yet somehow with one kiss, your touch heals my entire soul; fills the emptiness that swells my chest as if my heart had never broke.


though my brain wanders like tidal waves towards you and my limbs crash like the branches of trees, as today my fingers grasp the empty, missing your touch like the winter misses spring leaves. i know, we were a season, and there is a whole life left ahead for us to live alone.

still the movements of time and her changing seasons, this bitter wisdom that has come from age and grace, nor these emotions that crash like waves cannot keep me from reminiscing so sweetly how we spent entire days and nights: undressed, wearing only bedspreads, spread across one another; how the always sun came up too soon…

*darling, i want more time with you.

*six pm

Disney’s Aladdin circa 1992

When cast upon the barren terrain of loneliness I’ve crafted many castles and shrines to give shape to this flat land. Worshiping Him who merely crossed but did not root.

Every smirk; a sunrise scattering blue light and casting a golden warmth upon my empty sand. I was a sponge; I absorbed every ray of His light and when His star set, I began to pray facing West. I was left alone in the dark with shadows and shapes of the towers looming unoccupied.

To preoccupy myself from the daunting empty and the always alone I painted murals and gilded each shrine with gold. I went hungry to leave rice cakes and fruits at His altar— hoping to lure Him into the home I’d created and love me again for the art I’d devoted to His likenesses and name.

Each note upon which I’d wrote became a poem, became a notebook, became a grimoire full of morbid canticles. Much like space my loneliness spreads infinitely, as vibration and blue songs, as if willing its way towards forever seeking the edge and an end.

Every red candle burned brightly not to satiate the darkness; but as prayers to cast beacons across the liquid night and beckon back His ghostly glow.

If He’d rose again and become my sun, daring only I stare into His deadly radiation I’d have gladly looked boldly until falling blind; so blindly did I seek to feel the embrace of love when I was empty and there was none. –six pm