These waves now swell in my chest often.
I sit cold by the fire and hear your laugh.
It was just yesterday that we fell in love.
Today I am drowning.
And I do not know how to swim.

-

The clarity recedes at times. I focus on the overview, regret the past, slam myself in the present, but remain hopeful for the future. It is more of a habit. The cycle of regret, repentance, and fear followed by hope is kind of vicious. The sun bathes me in a different hue. I swallow a draught of air and let it make home in my heart. Someone recently said I have changed a lot. The soil sticks to my soles and with each step I take, the ground beneath turns green. Green is a cool color. It doesn't hurt your eyes much. It is akin to blue, but I never really liked green. The sign that says: Good to go! Go where? I carry you in my memory like a viable seed. I bring you back into my mind like red regret. I repent in fear. And of course, next in line should be hope. But when it comes to you, I abandon it. There's hope outside the idea of you, not with you, never with you. Yesterday, I mapped the stars in the sky. I'm sure I got at least one of them right. Perhaps the satisfaction of knowing something was what I was looking for.
You percolate into my soul now and then. I pour fresh soil over your name to bury the ache. And with every step I take, the ground beneath turns green again.

-

I wish he had said something
before
leaving behind
his only physical memory—
the weirdly lit cafe
with its dank floor,
the smell of soggy french fries,
greasy burgers,
the fallen handkerchief,
my nervous eyes that lingered
on the man
in the lavender shirt.
He had whispered,
"Relax, we'll be fine."
I'd found my repose
in the soft, comforting voice.
I think I was daydreaming that part.

-

The dusk settles now and its spidery legs retreat into the dark. Tomorrow, I will let go of today so that tomorrow will say, "I wish today were a Sunday."

-

Yesterday, I stood at the seashore where we always walked and found my hand grasping at the breeze.
While heading home, I reached the crosswalk and you crossed my mind.
It started to rain, and someone called out your name—as if they knew exactly what I needed.
I ate half a panini and left the other half for you, out of habit.
That evening, I brewed your favorite tea but did not have the stomach for it.
I folded your sweatshirts and went to bed cold.
I usually leave a dim light on, but chose the dark—so I could dream of you more clearly.

-

They always thought of Friday like the flower, finding space in someone's hand or becoming a part of a grander story, perhaps a bouquet. But no one spoke about the stalks of weekdays that held it with grace, no one noticed how green the grief shone beneath. It was only the soft slap of time that exposed the transience of weekends.

-

Each story has its destined end
Reviving the past is like driving into
An intended traffic en route
Sometimes we reflect or dig deep too
Either it's a habit or just a phase
Restoring the memories or simply erase

-

They ask me the same thing now, ask me whether I still write. I say I do. They question, "Does YQ still hold sway over you?" I say, "Isn't that what a home is supposed to do?"
Even though years have passed, I keep this app like a souvenir on my phone. I have changed phones, but the app stayed. I have grown by God's mercy. But I could never outgrow this app. Even if it stops functioning someday, it'll have a special place in my heart. Of course, my presence is inert here. Yet I feel I'm a member of this community. And what could change that feeling? I don't know whether this is what souls like me prefer. Maybe it is the sense of familiarity or the comfort of swallowing something without choking on it.
Consider this—a traveler journeys across the globe, hits the fields, scales heights, gobbles on grub, gets slapped in the face by happy winds and grumpy storms, swims through strangers, and cheers the crowd. However, when the trip tires and wears them down, they remember the only place that builds them up. Home.

-

A cold morning, roofs drip with rain
You linger on my lips like a poetic refrain
Our hearts stay hooked as hands part again

-

Tired of finding an alternative to goodbye
Goodbyes are good if the guest is over-friendly
And the host is sufficiently shy

-