Home is not

the bed you sleep in at night.
It’s not where you store that old magenta sweater in your shallow bedroom closet,
or where you read your old copy of Treasure Island that you keep in the nightstand you got from your grandmother.
Home is not
the couch that you find loose change in when you flip the cushions to clean them,
or the collection of photos in a small box sitting on the bookshelf that your father built.
Home is
the space between your hands and mine. That delicate breath of a space.
Home is
a smile in the darkness, the smell of your shampoo on pillows where you used to rest your head.
I don’t care
about the places you’ve been, or the things you’ve seen,
because all that matters to me is that you’re here, or that you were, once.
You’re just an imprint now, perhaps. Spaces where you used to be, and will be again.
But, for now, we wait. We wait. We forget where home was.
We will remember again, someday soon.
Until then.

Can you imagine

being somewhere and realizing the incredible amount of chance
involved in creating that moment, as insignificant as it may seem?
Everything in the history of ever coming together in an odd speck
of time, to be gone before we even begin to notice it.

Everything is just history, isn’t it.

Words on a page have already happened—we’re just reflecting.
Reflections. Echoes.
Moments already passed/past.

I am but a tangle

in bedsheets, mine—but they were more than that, not so long ago.
Everything that loves, leaves—doesn’t it?
Even if we don’t choose to, we must,
because everything ends. This is nothing new. We know this.
We all become dust, eventually. Pieces of the stars
that we came from. I am but a tangle in these bedsheets, cold—
I am not welcome here, nor anywhere, really.
Transient, stuck—



“You’re so special,”

you wrote.
I held onto that letter, pressed it against my chest
as if the ink on the page would fade onto my skin, like a tattoo
of backwards letters that I only I could read.
I felt so heavy in that moment.
I felt heavy, because I know.
I see it in the way smiles creep across your face even in the darkness,
and I feel it in the way you hold my hand a little tighter in the silence.
We both know. We always have.

Dry summer, part two

“Historic West Adams,” the sign read.

I was driving on the 10 East, watching the sunrise through a burnt haze, through the fog of lingering smoke from a fire over not-so-distant hills. I thought of how I wanted to burn all the letters and cards you had written me; not out of spite, or malice, but because it wouldn’t have felt right to just throw them away, I suppose. I had been putting it off because I didn’t own a lighter.

A different sign, now. “Historic Filipinotown.”

Historic, I thought.

Yes, that’s what those letters felt like as I read them on the edge of my bed, dropping them one by one — like I was spying on two lovers from an age past, with our same names.

There was a time, and a place

I’ve heard all the same things before —
before, words from another mouth, words;
the same words. You told me through tears, once,
what you had done in a time before us,
when you were not the same person.
I was not the same person once, nor will I be the same person
years from now, when experience and the mysteries of being human
shape and mold us, together, under the sun, where our wax wings
will only carry us so far, before Icarus calls to us from the water below.
We are too deaf to hear him, aren’t we?
And so we shall melt, together, in the light of the sun, two failed
beings, separate, plummeting to the fathoms beneath us.

Softer things

There are days when I remember outlines
of softer things, of things that I said
or didn’t say, and when I remember
places we never went —
we went upstairs, where we laughed, and slept,
but never anywhere else —
I remember answering my door for you
and sitting there, under a vaulted ceiling
and for the first time in a long time
feeling like my heart was free, just for a moment,
when outlines of softer things collided in the darkness.

Sometime in July

Behind every door is a solitary paradise, or some personal hell, or perhaps
somewhere in between. On this side, I can’t see the sunlight
stabbing through the cracks in the blinds, or the dust dancing through the stale air
of your room. But, I remember what it looked like, once,
on mornings spent in a summer haze. Later, when I would try
to make sense of things, I would imagine myself on the other side,
looking out at a street where parked cars lined up on Saturdays,
when everyone was home, and auburn laid gently over you as you slept.