Lucky

Follow me to my world. I
built it just     for the two
     of us. Cliche, I know,
but    why not, right?

Your hair      flowed not like
water, but as          bentgrass
    I beheld in       Croatia:
       when the winds
strike and they             refuse
  to leave their soil;
how they         flow              so
           beautifully.

Took your hand,           and took
         you there.            You said,
"Make me the luckiest
girl ever,"    how sweet
were your words.     So
I took you further there.

We walked parks, and      fields,
and Greece, and        Rome,
       whatnot and roamed
around the world    I
built for      the two of us.

           And us alone.

Our love was like Manila;
     how its waters looked
toxic when    it sustained
the two of us, actually.

"I'm the luckiest girl ever,"
       how sweet your words
had been.       I smile
                 at the thought

I thought the love        never
    faded; that it always was there
Othello laughs at                 the
  mistake graver     than his.

Ramos boasts his      medals
of vain honours;        I boast
        your letters written last
last May, or was it                July?


            Yes.

                    July.

A month or two after.
In the blink of an       eye.
       Your name on the headlines:
"Woman jumps from 35th Avenue
Bridge,"               how sweet were
                                your words.




 

Dolorem

Sleep kills the thought
of you—you left and
I forget not how,
for I think I still
am in love
somehow;
it hurts
but I
love
this
sor-
row.

Chains

Cry me a water-
fall. I have         never
been this demanding anyway,

you perceive me
       to be        weak;
"The weak prosper-
eth," so echoes Paul.


I ask nothing
      of you but
this:         should
you choose to
    leave me be,

and your demons
             clasp you,
Put you in chains.
Rusty, heavy    chains.

When you come
      running for

me,

know that i
      will not set you

free.