i was there that night.
i didn’t know if you remembered.
i just remember my empty bottle.
and your hands.

i was so smooth.
i didn’t feel rejuvenated.
i just left that to you.
and your skin.

i was confused.
i didn’t know where i was.
i just trusted you.
and your voice.

i was tired.
i didn’t close my eyes.
i just opened my mouth.
and your lips.

i was set.
i didn’t see it.
i just let it happen.
and you soared.

distant cover

i had just turned the corner. i left her while she still had stardust in her eyes.

the inside of my car still gave off the warmth that it had been treated to only minutes ago. the thought of opening my window did not strike me, when it did, i thought it best to keep them closed. i enjoyed the warmth more then i would let anyone else know.

the only noise emitting from my car was the gentle hum of the engine and the slight acceleration of the tires on the pavement. it was early morning, but, it felt more like dusk.

if you asked me the moment it happened, i would still say, ‘i have no idea’, but, that is simply the truth. as i turned the corner i began to slow down, regardless of how far my foot pushed the pedal. just as i came into a full curve, small drops of water began to cover me. they gently tapped, giving off a glow as they burst.

the radio emitted noise to every hit of the water. it didn’t irritate me one bit, as the sounds were just the drops of water amplified through my stereo. each with its own distinctive and unique pitch, tone and speed.

as i came around to straighten out, the drops of water slowed down, and with it the sounds being amplified also slowed down becoming quieter. the drops cleared by the time i had finally straightened out. the stereo went quiet again. i pulled over to the side.

the door swung quickly as i burst out. i looked back at the curb. it was completely dry. i gazed on the corner looking for a broken pipe or a sprinkler. just dried up land. the back window still had beads of water follow its curves downward.

my hand pressed against the hood. it was cold with a thin layer of moisture. i opened the door and slid back into my seat. i peered through the back window. the beads still sliding down, i turned the ignition and shifted into drive.

the streetlights flickered, my eyes relaxed and my mind bewildered. i don’t know what i want to believe it. i don’t want to know if i will ever understand it.

peering down the road, a light catches my eye. it grows and reveals its true self. i drive into the awakening sun. the beads disappear as i follow the path and am covered by the strengthening beams.

hard copy

the last time i saw you, you told me to check my mail and wait for a letter.

by the end of the month all i had ended up with were bills and coupons. and by that time, i guess you had left the country. maybe even fallen of the face of the earth. your friends just gave me shrugs and phone numbers that either rang forever or were disconnected. you were gone.

in the next few months i forgot about you, days went by. and the letter i was waiting for never came. i became a new person by the next year and the year after – i had forgotten your face.

but one day, for some strange reason, it came. it was in disarray. the letter i had waited for. my address was barely legible and the return had just had your name and street. the town and country had bled through the paper. and the note itself was now converted into random spirals and smudges of ink that used to have the answers to all my problems.

for a moment i almost remembered your face. but my memory failed me.

whenever i go to different parts of the world, i check the nearest map and scan for the street. sometimes i find it, but the number is too high and the street is too short.

i figure by now you’ve forgotten me as well. waiting for a response you never got. you could be half way across the world. or just across the city lines. down a street. you could be anywhere.

when i get back home, i’ll take the letter to a flame.
so i can pretend, that you never left and that we both just got lost.
we might find each other again, if we can only remember our existence – together.


i used to write on the back of receipts.
they crumpled, tore and wore.
i moved onto lined notebook sheets.
they stayed in a pile under a series of drawers.

now i stick to text boxes on-screen.
but sometimes i accidentally hit delete.
it’s not that i don’t want these words to be unseen.
the fact of the matter is that their incomplete.

my words don’t look the same as they did on receipts.
or feel as important as they did on those sheets.
something is lost in translation on-screen.
the fact of the matter is they probably aren’t seen.

im going back to writing on the back of receipts.
but only the things i want to lose – pain and defeats.