When you kissed me everything stopped for a moment, a millisecond it was like the breath from your body and the breath from my body just stalled between the spaces of our faces like they have been waiting there whole lives to embrace.

When you kissed me the heart exterior of my wall fell down brick by brick, touch by touch. The safety I had encased myself in from hands and palms that were to calloused to rub across my not so smooth edges.  ” Hands ” that only hurt me so I locked them out, but then you, you caressed yourself print across the nape of my very being, grabbing hold of the little fear that I have and soothed the ache of a thousand sandpaper kisses left before you.

When you kissed me I died, happily and at peace. I longed for that breath you suck from my body to create a home inside of yours and reside there eternally so that the life you stole in me would sit heavy in your lungs so every moment you were away from me I was still alive in you. Each inhale a reminder, each exhale a death sentence because each time you pushed me out, that little fear in me thrived while the hope in me died but I swear when you kissed me all the stars in the sky decided to shine at one moment perfectly aligned.

When you kissed me with your nose pressed into the nooks of my face your lips not quite on my lips but our heartbeats running the same marathons going on in our bodies I could feel you.


When you kissed me I never knew how hard it would be to let your lips leave my lips without ever saying goodbye and though you’ve gone I will always remember that time when you kissed me.


Imaginary chats with Mason

If my son ever ask me how to love a woman. I’ll tell him you better love her like vampire to blood, you better love her like werewolf to full moon, you better love her like Frankenstein to electricity but don’t you dare become another monster. Love her like fog around a haunted house,search for her voice in the floorboards and if you lucky to find your way inside of her heart please do not be afraid. I promise its not a cemetery, it’s just the names of the men who stayed long enough to make her feel dead on the inside. Hold her, tell her that scientist discovered human skin cells replace themselves every 7 years meaning in 7 years you will be the first real man to hold a body her ex boyfriends can never touch. Kiss the chalkboard on her lips, study her bad habits like hand me down text books learn every scar learn every bruise. Son hold her hands like flashcards see the lesson you going to learn is that everyone comes with baggage but you can’t be the man that is afraid to help her unpack it. You have to rip that shit open pull your mistakes out, pull the insecurities out, pull that skeletons right out of your closet and make room for a new wardrobe. Son wear her name like a coat that never goes out of style, wear her name out in style. You better find a sunset stuck in her throat, become a tree that takes a picture in the sunrise. This is the picture perfect moment to photosynthesize.

After all this if he tells me that his in-love with a man, I’d say you better love him like boomerangs in the winds of change like a jammed trigger on a rifle that’s stuck between war and survival. Son what you should understand is that he is at war everyday, See the closet is a barricade with a grenade doorknob but open it anyway, let freedom explode in your chest because the world only understands war if it happens in their backyards.

If he tells me he loves men and woman I’d say okay love them. Love them like parallel line segments, like a airplane loves it’s opposite wing, like yin and yang, like a table tennis net that separates both sides of the table understand both halves are needed to continue the game.

Son what I’m trying to say is that love your partner as I love you.

The moments of reprieve and sorrow. The gravitational forces around your mattress are insurmountable, the bones feel dry, you have no idea what wet bones should feel like but you imagine they are little easier to move than this but not now.

Now the lights are real low just like a trickle from the window you left open trace in the little light that lay next to you but that light is gone now. Eventually you get the enery to move from the bed to the bathtub got to washout all this space between galaxies wash of this dark matter that lingers in their absence you know the end of the universe could very easily be drainage so the end of you and them should look similar so let it all wash down.

then gravity kicks in so light showers turns to storms turns to missed calls turns to cement shoes turns to glass windows and no pressure turns to breaking and the glass runs down to- so you shower with the lights off now you do everything with the lights off now. The mirrors in this house dont look familiar anymore they use to ask how they look and this and that and everytime they looked amazing but not now.

Now the lights are real low, you know you use to be a person that slept with the blinds open to let the street lights shine in, too watch the headlights pass, too see the stars come home they have been out all night and they tired but so are you. See you always left a space for them just another excuse to pull closer the little light that lay next to you but that light is gone now and the lights are real low.

So step out of the bathtub, stumble into some clothes and go out the front door its gona be a long walk home. Either each step feels like the first step or every step feels like the billionth step and you wonder how that can be but then you remember the darkness that we embrace we call shade and the darkness we dont we call shadows and the only difference is the time of day and guess what its real late out and the lights are real low and its the billionth step for the billionth time and you nowhere near home because you have absolutely no idea what home looks like.

See the last place you lived at feels so empty, look how your laughter sits on the staircase, look how your smile lays nervous on the couch thinks there is a knock but no one is there. All the things that use to be apart of you sits in the bathroom and watch the water run. They watch how the mirror fog. Look at the room your voice wont walk into, how its empty and wooden ” I LOVE YOU ” is carved on the door.

Your whole body is a nervous widow this house is full of landmines when you love someone and they leave all the doors slam at once. When you love someone and they leave there is a echo in the hallway. When you love someone you just give them everything, even the bricks and the broken glass of the dirty dishes, the garden, the noisy mattress and the family photos. Even the ones with the little light in the backgrond.

100% Loved

All my friends are broken bones and broken spirits.

They are not ghost, they just have a few. They not bad people, just bad ghost. You see, they are too good at staying alive. I like to think they are cut out for it.

I like to tell them that I love them. I do not like to say it so, I say it like this 

” Hey text me whenever you get home tonight. “

” Hey, I have you heard what Juju said today? I just wanted to hear your views “

” Hey, I know we have not talked in a while because you have been going threw some personal shit, just let me know when you ready to talk #NoHomo #HierisjouDrPhil “

” Hey, I know you sleeping because you were studying for that stupid exam. I just wanted to let you know that you probably did great but regardless the outcome you still a rockstar. “

See my friends are not statistics or numbers, my friends are falling raindrops. You see they wanted to be clouds but they not really good at moving on.  I tell them its okay because sometimes you have to sit in the storm.

You see, my friends are falling raindrops. They sit on my windscreen and I never wipe them off, I love too look at them to much and I might crash the car while doing so but at least I’ll be with them.

My friends are falling raindrops they sit on my tongue and I swallow them whole, listen I know that sounds bad but I use to think I’m a cactus that didn’t need water or friends or love, but damnit, I’m thirsty and my friends are falling raindrops.

I like to think they cut out for it. I like to tell them that I love them but I really do not like to say it so I say it like this,

” Friends loving you is like practice for loving myself and I wanted you to know that I practice a lot. “

You see my friends are tree trunks, they have the thickest skin I get depressed when they try to proof me wrong by testing their limits they cut open and say

” Buys, look how sap leaks out of us maybe we not as thick as we seem. Maybe you should not speak so highly of fragile things. ”

I say, friends I will always speak so highly of fragile things, so much so that butterflies get stuck between my teeth because my friends are mountain tops. I do not look at them with Pompeii eyes. No, I look at them with Everest heart,, that is to say that I don’t look at them as tragedies but as everlasting in my heart of hearts because sometimes my friends feel ghostly. Sometimes they sitting in they eye of the storm, sap leaking out, lava spilling from their lips when they ask me what makes a person good.

I tell them they are 75% water, 25% bone, a little bit of flesh here and there, 0% the terrible things that have happened to them and 100% loved.

tell them they are 100% loved.

My princess you are 18 today

If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at. You can let them look at you but do not mistake eyes for hands or windows or mirrors let them see what a woman looks like. They may not have ever seen one before.

If you grow up the type of woman men like to touch, you can let them touch you. Sometimes it’s not you they are reaching for. Sometimes it’s a bottle, a door, a sandwich,  another woman, but there hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian,or a muse, or a promise, or a victim, or a snack you are a woman skin and bones vein and nerves hair and sweat you are not made of metaphors not apologies not excuses.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold, you can let them hold you. All day they practice on keeping there bodies upright even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural. It still strains the muscles holds firm the arms and spine, only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you and admit they do not have the answers they thought they would by now. Some men would want to hold you like THE answer. You are not THE answer.  You are not the problem, you are not the poem or the punchline or the riddle or the joke.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to love, you can let them love you but being loved is not the same as loving. When you fall in love it is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping. It is realizing that you have hands. It is reaching for that tightrope when the crowds have all gone home.

Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman that men will hurt. If he leaves you with a car alarm heart you may learn to sing along. It is hard to stop loving the ocean even after it has left you gasping and salty. So forgive yourself for the decisions you have made and the ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night. Know this, you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours. Let the statues crumble, you have always been THE place.

You are a woman who can build it yourself.

You my dear child were born to build.

Proloque to my imaginary book named ” The Vault”


Prologue comes from the Greek term prologos, which means “before word”

When I do get to sit down and write a book, this is the very first thing you would see.


If it were me, when the book arrives I would immediately start scanning pages to find any trace of me.

My name.

Moments we shared.

My secrets.

I would pretend to be horrified if I found any evidence of myself but really would pray to find even a single mention of you. You may do nothing like that.  You may not even crack the spine. You may place this on a bookshelf or worse under a stack of papers, you may forget about it and re-gift it later to someone as a secret Santa.

I will never know.

But just in case you are like me, Just in case you think about the way my hands use to piano key your spine. The way I would whisper spells in your ears while you were sleeping, the way I slipped notes into your bag just in case you wonder if all those winks meant anything at all I will tell you. You do not need to look very hard to find your shadow here, your fingerprints are on these pages and if you would like to know more just flip the page.

It was never me

Many moons ago like most people I fell very hard for a person that already fell for someone else, I would like to say it was unknowingly but sadly deep down I knew. Well atleast intern for a broken heart it gave me this.

Another little trip to my cardiac muscle that I like to call “The Vault”

If my heart is poetry, then the last love poem I wrote is a crumpled up memo and you are a journal I was hoping to fill my days with until the space ran out. But I must have cramped my writing hand because even muscle memory has forgotten how i used it.

Were you thinking of him then, too?

When I flipped through your pages, did you remember her fingerprints on your surface edges?

Was just a creased corner pointing backwards to the place that you saved for her?

And when he broke your heart, did she also crack your spine so you would always fall in his direction?

I admit I never left you open on my bedside table but I guess you were already stolen in someone else’s secrets and affection. There’s a reason I stopped using notebooks and pencils.  At least the backspace is relatively painless when you enter into a document knowing its only temporary. And NO! I’m not afraid of his ink stains. Just my habit to Rorschach their meaning into tea leaf and palm line predictions, reminders that all stories must have endings, because I will always believe in the portent of disaster even if it never begins.

So when did I become so bold that I scrawled my thoughts in marker hoping that it would bleed through your body and become permanent? But you marked his first. Said you would always be his diary, guess that makes me an entry on an off day. But see, I don’t care how many libraries there are in the world, I still look for you when I can’t find the right synonym for beautiful. When other women touch me, I’m still looking for your plotlines. Your paper cuts are the first thing I was willing to bleed for in so long. But I’m not blaming you, I’m blaming me.

See If my heart is poetry, then I only want you to remember lines about love lingering like my scent on your (actually my) favourite hoody like the night you asked me to come over even though we both had to be up early the next morning.

Do you remember? You said you would put it on later just to be close to me.  I’m really not trying to be more than your friend, nor am I postponing an inevitable end. After all, they say if you truly love someone, then let them go. So please know that I am willing to paper crane all your pages until they papyrus the sky like stars we’ll finally discover when they turn out all the lights. I may never be the one you sleep next to at night, but at least let me be the love letter tucked beneath your pillowcase to remind you that no matter what, you will always, always be worth the read my love.