When you think in poems
You know you are in love.

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A photograph is like a stillborn :
dead and alive at the same time.

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I carry a broken umbrella
as much as it carries me through
a storm, only strong for one of us.

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I live when my dreams don't.

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In the train there was this man who sat opposite
had my other half of the whirling window world.
I didn't know when he boarded nor where.
One morning he was there in the opposite seat
like something always there that I missed.
We never made any small talk.
Occasionally, he'd crook his leg
so that I could stretch mine.
He'd catch my eyes
lead them to his backpack
and I'd nod so he could use the toilet.
He'd raise his eyebrows
seeing my troubles with the broken socket
which lower when the plug fits right in.
I never asked his name.
I believed him to be a man seeking artists' flame
from the childish crayon scratches on his backpack.

When his leaving station arrived
he got up, nodded
and with the slightest trace of a smile
left the train.
My legs remain crooked the same.

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Why does your heart beat like after a run
when the person you love smiles at you?

Because it's prepping up for a long journey.

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I heard Emily's screams
too close that from my heart it seems
but boy, ain't this world sleeping in its perfect dreams.

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I am lost in all the
humans that I meet.
I find the man that
I am among the trees.

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Here's a bit of chocolate
you left behind
unchewed; shiny foil
pearled in a corner.
Here's the last bit
of sparkle in my life.
And sweetness.

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I have drawn my sword already,
but what good is a sword
if your hand's the enemy.

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