Not our own

Where is poetry
in a world that keeps
us so far apart
You ask me

I tell you,
look even the birds
have come searching
for your feet in sand
and my kisses on your neck

This is poetry.

When what can be said
is said by voices
not always our own


the symptoms of the disease
were listed out by doctors

I feared not the consequences
which like everything
culminated in death
due to breathlessness,
Or the fatigue of the heart
but feared one symptom,
One symptom alone

The loss of sense of smell

How would a hound like I,
then know in my sleep
that you have turned away
from beside me
in our sleep


The skies are a different name of you,a different hue of your laughter

The skies always tell me
something else

to look up and not see you – absence
to look up and see the moon – solitude
to look up and name every star – freckles

and since that day
I learnt
to look at you
and long for the skies


What is poetry
To dream that i was
choking on letters
from a game of Scrabble

to wake up
embraced in silence
of your breathing

words, thoughts

all games won


I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.

I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.
wrote Rilke

Ah, what would he say to I whose circles have been shrinking. Like a leash that is reaching for my skin.
My back bears witness.
The words are wounds. Sore, festering, trying to break free.
I wake up with a barb wire around my heart. To breath on these mornings is to watch my flesh lick these fences.
My heart is a prison. It’s walls have stories of us.
But it is too dark for anyone to read.
My memory too is foresaking me.

Am I just turning into the dot
that you end your name with.