Storms in sunset

Leaving felt like sending my heart a drunken text: a fuck-it-all that was uncomfortable in the wake, as naked as raindrops trickling along skin when he dropped me and my broken umbrella by the doorstep.

Footprints on the mat, and words so soft they dribbled into socks, and slipped through my soles like echoes.

I heard them resonate: while ripples widen, circling their predecessors, his letters shrank and when I tried to catch each escaped breath, I could only hear my own ears beating red and black: the aftermath of storms in sunset, a beautiful kind of ache.


The ocean is soft

The ocean is soft, I’d never noticed before. The waves crash, the tides claw back, the seagulls shriek, but the ocean is soft

The engine of the last car rumbles into silence, and I’m left with my own footprints, and his next to mines.

The waves are breathing, steady then erratic, a little like the hearts that lean in then apart.

Shadows touch each other, the sun does not die but becomes the moon – round and beaming, a light that is shy, alight

Your fingers cradle, it’s forgotten how to loosen when your fingers lace each other, knit into each other

knuckle on knuckle, the ocean’s soft

the only sounds come from your own chest, and his.

The ocean is breathing

the ocean is breathing

the ocean is breaking.

The dream to sea

i think of embers burnt in ocean’s flame

till it blazed the spent wood back to life;

and the songs, drowned by centuries, crawling

its body back to surface, brought its fingers through

the ships of shore till they broke their

strings of safety and dissipated, as the wind does.


i think of hull colliding hull till they grew to

love the other’s broken heart, till the winds that

carried souls breathed a new beginning and

the night that sunk ahead whistled day apart

and dark alight. there’s a melody to the way the

sea of dreams wavers, inhales, lets its fantasies undone


and there’s a way he folds, unfolds the waves till

every lapse’s examined, embraced, caught

in the clasp between his arm; till he loves

unrestrained. there’s a slowness in the way

he holds my eyes to silence and my mind to peace, like

there’s nothing to be said but this.


Sorry I haven’t been posting much! But here’s a new poem – my form of procrastination 🙂


Sometimes you carry this confidence in your eyes

and you don’t even notice the way

it unravels shadows and opens up the clouds.


Sometimes you let slip your clumsy smile

and you don’t even notice the way

it drowns their lungs and brings their hearts to shore.


Yet often

you think it’s overconfidence to wear yourself as glasses,

to walk around in skin that feels like yours

because this skin is thin and breakable



you hide yourself in stutters and apologies

that spring from your tongue so often

one mistook it for your breath.



you tell others you know nothing,

and believe it.


But never do you whisper

you’re not worth it.

Granite thoughts

The thought of you is maddening.
Whispers in my head become carvings on
a granite stone,
stamping in the every time you spoke to me
and every time you touched your brow to crinkles
and every time you smiled with the ocean in your eyes.

The thought of you exhilarates.
The pedal’s down, tires roaring down the asphalt
and I know this road will lead me nowhere
but your headlight’s up ahead and that means
there’s still a silver of a chance.

The thought of you is saddening,
the thought is not enough. It feels too much like
soaring to the clouds only to evaporate.
And I’m weary to the bones,
looking anywhere but straight ahead.
The steering wheel
sends me on this blind pursuit
for an everything that will one day grow to

How to reignite a heart

She took a risk expecting nothing in return,
Embraced the dying embers in the swallows of her palms
And planted tiny seeds of warmth in the centre of its ebbing heart.

She wasn’t brave or sharp or any way remarkable,
All she did was listen
A single unsteady pulse playing to the tune of hers
Her hands were worn but her heart was soft,
Like the first drops of rain

Drumming, falling
Never breaking into any less than power
The sound of life tearing through the skies
Raining down the streaks of night and day
Until the embers in her palms
Rose and reignited
And grew to a shadow, to a breath,
To the flicker in his
Beautiful, bold eyes.

Musings of a night

They say that you are the night, cold and born to die of light, but you’re smiling and there’s a swallow in your cheek and a shadow on your chin, and I realise that they don’t understand. They will never understand how you don’t have to be the warmth to warm me, how you don’t have to be the sun to show me an entire world, how you the starless sky are more beautiful than the taste of fireworks.

Unlit candle

Passions fizzle out but you never do.
You are that unlit candle, sitting
by the window, in a darkness
of the warmest kind. I can’t see you
but I read you. I read your smile.
I read the gentle way you pull
at your hair, and stand up, and take
a timid step forward; the way you paint
my brow in strokes of unhurried thought
and leave single lingering marks.
The breeze flickers about the curtains,
but I’m steady in your arms.
The world is dark, shadows grey.
But your lips taste of colour.

The way you stay.

Why am I still hung up on the past? Most days I force myself into the present, but sometimes, I find myself slipping away, away into the distance, retracing footsteps, looking back at memories of you with a hunger that aches, a longing unfulfilled, a possibility unrealised. The simplest of things are triggers – listening the song I told you was my favourite, drinking the tea you introduced me to, walking in a breeze that carries with it the sound of tired engines and flickering traffic lights just as we had done once. You are just a ghost now, that’s what people tell me, but that’s the problem, don’t you see? You may not be here anymore, but your presence still haunts me, still catches me when I least expect it to. People come and go, but ghosts stay by your side, following you the way unwanted shadows do.

Don’t you get it? Even when you’re gone, you’re not. I want to move on, but I’m only moving forward still clasping onto these memories of you as though they are my last heartbeats. It’s embarrassing to admit all this… I mean, how could so short a time with you leave such a deep impression?

I read a story once. The girl in that story realised that moving on is not forgetting, it’s being able to remember without feeling any pain. The thing is, I don’t feel pain but I feel something. A tight smile, foggy eyes. Something slight, rarely noticed but always felt. Maybe all this is because I’m “sensitive”, maybe my emotions are fragile like wet clay and any kind of weight imprints an everlasting mark upon them. But maybe it’s because you actually meant a lot, and I never had the courage to tell you that. Somehow I let you go without ever letting you go.