Casual

It’s not hard to forget.
All you need to do
Is to remove their agency.

Cast them into an Object.

Take their swirling, twirling complexity -
The way they crinkle their nose
When they catch an errant thought.
The way Her gazelle eyes capture
Stray sun flakes, and the way
You try to follow her down one of her
Rabbithole thought-chains and you resurface
Hours later, a little less sane,
But swaying softly to purple music.
Her unpredictability, her randomness,
Her labyrinth-like emotions and Her passion and her cool familiarity –

And put them into a delineated brace.
Tear down the edifices of them you’ve erected
In the recesses of your mind.

Take away their humanity.
Define them.

And poof! No more.

You cannot be too deeply in love
With an Object.

…

Surrender
To the liquid nitrogen anger that
Smolders in your veins;
Let it wash away these cobwebs of complexity
And stale poems that breed quietly
In your mind,
When you’re not looking.

Youth

Youth is

An overflowing heart and

A trembling-with-ache brain.

Maturity is calmly wistful.

Maturity is a burden

Squeezing down my rebellious throat,

Gagging me.

The cross that grants me stability

And structure;

Youth is a poem that reveals too much,

A song that feels too much,

Half-smiles that say too much.

Him

Your synapses are

Lined with memories

Of his eyes, his nose, his smell;

The ghosts of his fingertips on your waist

Crawl around like spiders when I touch you.

His name is engraved in ornate lettering

Onto some corner of your brain.

I can taste him on the tip of your tongue, and

I can hear him murmuring like a salty stream

Underneath the sound of your choked sobbing.

Perhaps one day you shall invite me in

To your skull again, and perhaps

I shall acquiesce;

But I shall find draped on the sofa

And the lampshade and the coatrack,

Shadows of him

and him and Him.

Rain

These morning raindrops round

The outer skin of my mood;

Send the occasional fractalling thrill

Of cold pleasure shivering down

To my core.

The rain is impersonal,

And yet so familiar. It tugs playfully

At yarns of memories

Of infinite June afternoons in my mother's verandah, and it smells 

Of the summer that is to come. It

Washes away terrestrial concerns

Of my pre-caffeine mind, and

Whispers softly in the echoes of

The drumming on my sill...

Whispers what? Who knows?

It's enough that it whispers.

Cold

The days take on the hue of infinity, and yet
We are all hurtling at 67,000 miles an hour towards
A rusted bed and a rusted bedpan.

The incorrigible sticky loneliness makes me cry, sometimes,
With mirth;
Life is hilarious in its cruelties, and I'm

Unsure if the cavernous stretching
Of the days makes me want to explode with
Infinite happiness, or infinite gloom.

...

She
Is in cold love with everything, and I
Am in love with her coldness.