Months have gone by and still
you echo in my black hole,
your lips still brushing mine
in the wind that caresses my face,
your voice whispering through
the riffs and chords of songs,
your body visible in the contours of trees,
your face in the curves of the clouds,
and looking up desperately at
the night sky,
I envision you glancing at the same stars,
your soul having been imprinted permanently
on the Earth's ceiling,
so even when I close my eyes
you linger in the corners of my mind,
a universe of
constellations and planets,
galactic clusters of
immortal memories and undying
desires.
Months have gone by as I
continue to orbit around
the memory of you,
tilting onto your axis,
spinning round and round as
I try desperately to get back
to you, but you're
galaxies away.

Sometimes I fear
I have become too good at
being alone.

I basque in the hours
spent locked by my
lonesome in the confines
of my apartment,
surrounded by nothing but
brick and cement and the sounds
of the television or my iPod speaker.
Tranquility seeping in through my
isolation,
I yearn for the moments I am
privileged to spend without
the duty to perpetuate conversations
or offer advice to someone I consider
merely an acquaintance.

Sometimes I worry I am
too comfortable with solitude.

I get a thrill off of
being needed without needing,
being sought out without seeking.
I let others let me in
without having to give a shred of
myself in return,
for people love to go on
about themselves
without inquiring about
the person to whom they
narrate their autobiographies.

Sometimes I am scared of
the ease with which I can
let someone go.

So often have people come and gone
that now I comprehend, perhaps
too deeply,
that nothing in life is guaranteed
and most people are meant to be
lessons rather than
permanent.
There was a time where I wept
with sordid frequency for the people
I was forced relinquish,
clinging tightly to the empty void,
wallowing in a glass half full of
skewed memories.

Sometimes I am terrified that
I only really know how to
be alone.

It is almost impossible for me
to recall a love not
unrequited.
I stare up at screens and strangers
all screaming that love exists,
and there I am fighting
insane laughter because I just
can't see it,
as if my eyes have become colorblind,
for it is black and white that
all I've ever had is
gray.

Sometimes
I am afraid
that this is
Always
how it will be.

Oh,
how conflicted is the soul
of a poet,
for we yearn for nothing more
than to share the deepest depths,
our nakedness and rawness in
the beautifully
tragic love we feel,
but how much do we
try to individualize
that that lies inside, to make ourselves
stand out, for we
experience the world in sensory means
beyond the normal comprehension
of those around us;
how badly we wish for our
word choice and alliteration
to breathe life into the persons
who never hopefully
comprehend our creativity,
for we are arrogant in our
supernatural secret-keeping,
in our mind games and
manipulation.
Oh, how I bless my soul,
a poet lost
deep in the depths of my own
emotion,
of my never-waivering devotion,
to being the most uniquely recognized
and desperately bittersweet
wide-eyed doe
that ever did aggressively
permit the world
to melt so fervently into a home
within her.

During the struggle, love can pull us up
When comfort and warmth can’t be found, we can still reach for love
Because in the end, it shows us the way
But what is love exactly? Love might be a dream, a silent reverie
It might be everyone’s fate. Or is it nothing but an illusion?
Love remains a theme dearest to poets' hearts
Whom will never stop intriguing us
With their various styles and love readings.

The water dances
silently under the
moonlight,
streetlights
reflecting onto
the river
in hues of gold and cerulean,
fish fluttering to the
surface
in arhythmic,
unpredictable
time sequences.

I sit
near the metallic railing
that guards
the liquid edges;
I inhale slowly
as my eyes
absorb all the hidden
color in the darkness
of the blackened
summer night.

The bushes arch toward me,
extending their leafy green fingers
in a hushed reassurance.
The mulch under my
lower body
is slightly poky
but weirdly soothing,
and I seem to melt
into the ground
as I lounge in a silent Indian style.

The back of my head
occasionally
grazes against the tree
behind me
as the sprinklers
just miss
my relaxed frame.

In long waves and splashes
of confusion,
self-doubt,
and loneliness,
I manage to retreat
to some, if only temporarily,
state of serenity
as I perch on the shoreline.
It's as if I lose myself
below the water,
all the heaviness drowning
& sinking to the bottom,
and my much lighter
outer shell
waits, wading on the
nearby soil.

Sometimes I have
this fear
that I'll always be

             alone,

one of those people
who just
"isn't destined to be
in a (loving) relationship,"
and in the meantime
all I get
are half-genuine,
wholly-awkward
"it's just not your time" 's.

Will there ever be a time
that is mine,
where I can let
my inner hurricane
fizzle out,
waves of infinite
heart to extend to
another, crashing down
onto a sandy white beach?

My spine suddenly
tingles,
existential crisis
swimming up and down
my icy veins,
clogging my
arteries;
shortly before fainting
from the crushing
weight of it all,
the sound of an airplane
flying overhead
snaps me out of my
analytical coma,
and the
ripples
put me back to tranquility.

An over-analytic,
overbearing,
misguided idiot.

That about sums it up.

उदेकलाग्दो कोलाहलबीच हराएको अस्तित्व
चिच्याउछ मन, अदृश्य श्वर गुन्जाइकन
फेरि प्रश्न तेर्सिन्छन हरेक कोणमा
कता हराइस् यति बेर, कता खोजिस् र आफुलाई
म अवाक् नै हुन्छु, केही बोल्न खोज्दाखोज्दै बिलाउछु
एकपल उदाएको अस्तित्व पनि,
म सक्दिन अमर बनाउन
सायद सिकीसके अदृश्य भई रमाउन

अर्को मन सम्झाउन खोज्छ र भन्छ
कल्पलोक तेरै हो, तेही लोकको राजा होस्
यता शून्य अस्तित्व उता महलमा रमाउदो छ
संवेदनाको जगमा ठडिएको कल्पकृति
फुरुंग भई आकाश तिर हुत्तिन्छ
अनि म यता नराम्ररी पछारिन्छ
यो चोटको पिडा विशम छ सहन
सायद सिक्दैछु बिस्तारै आफुसंगै हराउन

Is is trust
or disrespect
that swerves
avoiding cats
but carelessly
bulldozes pigeons—
who make it out
just in time?