Our soggy sandwiches. Our constant running out of dental floss. And our several mental issues. Mental and physical. Psychological. Our indignation with the silence of P's. Our misery toward wrong grammar. And yet our vicariously short-lived memories. Our endless drying out of thoughts. Our fear of facing those thoughts alone. Our finding comfort in food. Our daily challenges. Monthly challenges and yearly challenges. Our struggles with intimacy. And with space. Our sickness. Our health. Our money. Our poverty.  Our unhealed wounds. Our under realization of calibres. Our own resounding echoes in the air tight rooms we are constrained to. Our crippling social awkwardness. Our fight with depressing daily news. Our nausea. Our vertigo. Our pounding in the stomach. Our fear of having a child. Our scare of overeating ourselves to death. Our fear of losing touch with our deep inner selves. Our fear that our potted plants will die. And that we all will die and all this will come to nothing. Our strange acceptance of that end in nothingness.

Locking Pandora Again

All my life I've been looking for someone discreet. And now you've been bestowed upon me. Hell knows, I wanna engage in small talk with you. Me and small talk. Yes. I am afraid of scratches. And for you, I wanna play with fire. Tonight. Adrenaline is rushin' to my head like a madwoman. It's all a game after all. Nothing is ever enough. And I'm always falling short anyway. In money, space, time, success, joy. Nothing's ever enough. So I've put my finger on the thing. The key that can lock Pandora again. I'm gonna use ye as my drug to forget everything. Hereafter. I'm gonna chase you. You swan. Ye beautiful beautiful eagle. You snake. You man. I'm putting my foot down and letting go. And shedding all else. I'm gonna close my eyes and hallucinate about being chained to your wings in midflight. A bit too late for poetry, isn't it. Will you have a drink with me though. Drench me in your wine. And let me wreath around you and lose this garb I've been faking so long. I'm gonna lose my story and merge with you. That way, I wanna tremble my pain out. My sedimented sorrow of a mountain will melt and drizzle out of my holes as I am entwined. In that position, midflight, I wanna leap down with you, plummet from heights and meet my end in the gorge. Instantaneously. In a pop.


Our fates are intertwined. We are enclosed in this chamber. With just the right amount of oxygen. We will last right until we collapse into each other. It's as if the universe is conspiring for us to merge.

Your roving eyes. Those nimble movements. A glimpse of your flesh from between buttons. My stealthy eyes. Arm hair, warm breath, your outstanding voice. Getting dissolved in the everlasting noise, yet filtering out.

Again your eyes. Their roving fijacion on me. What a live contradiction, this. We humble ageing bodies, don't even deserve love of this kind no more. We have had our times, back in the day. Long tortuous years.

Love, like a person has aged right with me. It is about five years older than me, rather. Whatever age I am in, love is exactly half a decade older. Now I am thirty. And love should be thirty five.
But aloha. Love is suddenly eighteen, even thirteen, when you're around. Some Benjamin Button phenomenon this.

Your shiny ignorance, my colorless past. Both us folks have had exams, degrees, jobs, loves. Movies, songs and books. Many many infatuations like each other. But all in the past. Hell, we don't even deserve each other, vide our separate justified rationales. But fuck rationale. Why is this even happening now. Oh.