she is waking now.
stirring, lascivious, turns;
slowly unfolding.



moon and light.

we continued to walk the path;
you reached the moon,
stepping on the stars.

we continued to walk the path;
you illuminated the road,
glistening on the water.

we continued to walk the path;
you tempted the waking sun,
concealing yourself in daybreak.

we continued to walk the path.


doors and hinges

sometimes things are completely broken.

a door rests on its hinges. but hinges will begin to rust and crumble; the metal will turn into a dust, weightless in air.

no matter how ornate the carvings on the door, how glossy and rich the hues of the paint. no matter how sturdy the Adler wood of the door. As it slips off the hinges, it stops being.

the beauty in all of this is that the door can be put on another hinge. and it will be alright.


her illusion of intimacy.

she had this way to creating the illusion of intimacy with any of the men she met in her life. watching her from a distance, one would think that she is especially close with the man of the moment.  in my lonely hours, i’ve found myself thinking about why — or, more importantly, how? how could one imitate such a genuine human feeling? i know that was something beyond my capacity. the more i thought about it, the more i realized that it wasn’t about the technique of replicating intimacy but  about her. perhaps this type of intimacy evaded her, through circumstance or luck. maybe she carried a mirror — reflecting her wants onto whomever she could, each night. this is how she could participate in the dance of human desire. she could receive something she wanted for herself. it didn’t matter at that time who stood on the other side of the mirror.