peered into the belly of the beast
that toils for pageantry, theatre...

terrified of the light, we die with a mouthful
of words that took root on our tongues...

and yet, it manages to swell again;
the sadness is lamenting again...

with soft yearning, i shall write of you tonight.
the skies simmering away the stars might have...

saccharine verses coats my palate;
a waxy mouthfeel that one grows...

o’ girl who massages coconut oil into hair,
the next time you wear jasmines in your hair...

tender is the night as the monsoon
blossoms at some time past three am...

and if i die,
i don’t want you to mourn me...

i want to tear the sky open,
and drink the ocean you...

a plucked tongue, uprooted and transplanted in
foreign lands before the seed was sown...

coward.
the word itself is unpalatable to a practiced...

my skin drinks in the sun, turning a
shade or two darker – a homage to our...