there is a photograph

on the table

beside the yellow window

and this table is bent

from the middle

bent from the weight

with cracks lining its legs

and fungus rotting its insides

there is a table that stands

besides the yellow window

and the table is so much like me.

illusions of death

let me bleed

through your illusions

my hallucinations

until everything that falls

from my arms

is emptiness

and death.


we are all a little conflicted
and our beauty lies
in this paradox
of love and hate,
of poetry and conversations
and the similarities
contained within the space of two words.


your glass eyes
make me hang on to every word
every mistake
like the shadows cling to the moon
during daytime
and vanish into oblivion.

perfect lives

perfect lives
fall apart
this disintegration
of souls
and hearts
and families
come together
to form
and bonds
and life.


trace your finger

on my lips

like a dewdrop

running down the side of a leaf

at the dawn of creation.


let me flow

like the light of the stars

across a dark sky

like the river

across a mountain

like a dewdrop

across the edge of a leaf

until my particles have scattered
into nothingness
and i am alive
with this echoing
constancy of non-existence.

Miniature Prose

there was this beauty in the way she walked

in the way she held herself

and the way she smiled

when i walked by

there was a beauty i saw

and yet

it did nothing for me

and never had i felt so empty.


I am falling through space and time like an asteroid heading for explosion. I can see her nubile body waiting for me. There is still time for the final charge. I am not ready, and neither is she. Her eyes are like tiny jewels from up here, watching me in anticipation. I am lost in them. Everything else ceases to be. I am for her, and she is made for me. Metal glinting on metal, and the dripping noises made by my comrades – tiny distractions, like the sunlight burning through my heart. Somewhere far from my realm of existence, voices sing of love and beauty. The morning sun shines for them, and only for them. For me, I love in pain, for I know that as the dawn rises, my journey will begin and there will be no return. Her voice has joined theirs, and my world is complete. Her voice cannot be described – it is like hearing angels sing in a city made of ruins and rusted iron, just like mine. But it is mine, and so is she. The first rays of the sun hit, and I burst forth in glorious colours – blue, violet, red and orange. And I can finally see her. She is perfection. Her robes lie on broken pipes, and her heart on my broken body. I am awaiting my own destruction with an inexplicable excitement. The pipes have grown eyes to watch us unite, so have the showers and the taps that float above me, and so have my comrades, who are ever so desirous; I can feel them in my head – the constant drip-drip, the sudden splatter as they give away their lives for those petty nymphs who do not know them. But mine – mine is special. She understands me. I am sure of it. I am closer to her now, so much that I can see the tiny hairs on the small of her back rise up in goose-pimples with every passing breeze. I can see every hair of her brow and the shades of gold that others so envy. Inside, I am a calamity. A calamity stronger than the one that hit Armilla a million years ago and destroyed the walls and our peace and our privacy. But that is not important, for she is now nearly ready. She is climbing into the bathtub, her slender thighs brushing across the cold iron with a smoothness and sexuality so subtle and overwhelming, I nearly break. She lies down. Her breasts heave with every breath. Her delicate, feminine fingers run though her hair. Her braid, once made of gold and azure, falls apart, and she has never looked more beautiful. She is ready, but I am not. I am falling as planets align themselves and the stars come out in the morning sun and the winds waft to whisper goodbye. I am falling as colours split apart into more and thread every strand of the city with my emotions. I am falling as galaxies collide and Armilla – Armilla faces the tragedy it did before: of a thousand storms and floods, each one of them pouring out from me; and she – she is all I can see. Those soft hazel eyes look up softly. And as we unite the universe closes in on itself and my heart falters like that of a dying star and hundred colours explode all at once and suddenly, there is nothing at all.