To Christmas

It’s been a while since I’ve felt you. It’s been long since I lay starry eyed under winter skies, swearing I could hear the jingle jangle tinkle of your bells in the air.

It’s been a while since I’ve smiled.

From nothing, to nothing more, I now lay ensconced and curled between grief and a time I can barely remember.

I was once your child.

Dear Christmas, nostalgic suns glaze my eyes and I smell tears in the fire place. Winter no longer sings, while a burning summer heats the lines on my feet, the oracle forgot to read.

These scars are hard to interpret.

I feel the earth mourn under reaching tips of these yearning toes, as we vibrate in the frequency of pain. There’s terrible silence at work again.

Desperate, I write letters to death pleading a return on orders placed wrongly under my name. Back. Back.Back. I no longer inch ahead. Lost between whispers of a life, and the loss of all the dead.

Dear Chirstmas, it seems I misspell you as often as you elude me. Will you ever again come to me? This pulse throbs in violent threats, as I lose all synonyms for pain.

Dear Christmas, if I may, I must. One wish through the screens of collecting dust-bring your best soldiers forward, have your missiles aimed.

Do what you must, to turn the light on from within.


I Talk to You

I talk to you in verses. I talk to you in tears after a long day of laughs that still leaves me dry throat and gasping.

I talk to you in mid dream madness when I half-wake,  conscious in a world where you’re just not there.

Weighed down, cages aching, I talk to you in salty sighs that heave up and recede, slapping a Tsunami on my soul like a storm with an eerie lurk, I cannot dodge. The sirens have been going off for eighty four days today, and I stand waiting while this wave fights gravity just above me.

The seagulls screeching nervous echos in the distance.

So I keep talking. I talk to you wholeheartedly confused. I missed you in a blink and my eyes still try to catch up with this haze you left me in. I fit you in places, everywhere, and then my mind beats me into bruises I can never explain.

I talk to you through others. In them I tramp for bits and pieces of you. Their words smell of you, and like a child of the streets, I pour them into water just to breathe them in. But then the fall is harder. . .Still I’m back for more.

I talk to you in silent seconds, in the quiet between notes when a song needs no words and the melody keeps me floating. In the adagio I can share a nothingness with you, so sweet.

And it goes on. So unending that it hurts. And the darkness keeps spreading, it twirls like a drop of ink on milk and it smokes all around me.

The path isn’t clear, destiny rattles against the concave cages of a year that has changed the geometry of my soul; so alien this new topography.

Things unsense. Things unmake. Things laced with a fear I had never known before. Nothing is familiar here. Nothing, but a twanging, bursting, hurling pain.

There. I talk to you there.



Nitin 2

I search for you like the last penny in a nickel jar; you rattle at the bottom of an endless chink I cannot crack. I feel you flutter faintly in a mock, but I tire from the effort it takes to roll you up and make you mine.


You’ve jaded me from the little joys I knew- Like words. Like the cursive rolling of them round the edges of my tongue, wet, ripe and hungry for their lustful coupling. Their fleshy purple sighs echoed sentences across the post apocalyptic green corridors of my mind.There, in the silence. .. after all had been said, and said and said again, were my words- dancing in a naked ceremonial mating.
And now we sit across the canvas of our minds like tired lovers who let too much time pass.


It’s funny, you died and I can’t seem to let myself live. So I summon silence and let the quiet take over. I tie each day to the other, forgetting where one ends and the other begins. The emptiness covers me softly like a child in womb, and I can sleep again. . . Anyone who said ‘numbness’ was a cliche, never had to lose a you. Well I’ll bargain every cliche I have, for you. To have you. To find you. To feel you. To go back to the traces of me you took with you.


I’m beginning to forget you. And the secret makes me quieter. You’re being doctored deep deep deep into those spaces no one else can find, and I’m afraid you’ll stay there forever; in those armored suits I was trying to pawn off for some happiness.


Your absence leaves me with sentences left unfinished and thoughts abandoned even before they can breathe.

So I leave every thought half felt, and every effort incomplete.


terrarium art

Bear. Bones sheath skin that barely knows itself. Coming to terms with what is, under sheets of what is not. In humbled greetings, bent backed… Tired. . .Grateful. . .Pensive. 

I am more than parts of the alphabet put together in the callous rhythm of My Name.
Am I.

The fugitive inside me scampers in distress, as insides smoke a clear poison of Truth.Truth.

I am smaller with this dying all around me.  Recoiled and revealed in sweet syllables of calming sadness. The wound breaks outward in grief. Raw.

So raw it hurts. The observant tilt their heads, gauging the difference. Toes remember last scrapings of leaving earth in nails. Arms comb through breeze, of Earth and still Unearthly. Floating.

I taste mud between my teeth, filling up the empty slots where lies once cavitied my gum. I am flying.

Changing. Moving. Grieving un-tethered.

Shifting pebbles in this terrarium. 

Ode. .Ode Unfinished.

I don’t know where to begin. Fiction was your tool, and I struggle to hide between sheets of emotions, all too real. If ever there were a need for alternate universes, alternate realities, now would be a good time for a God, any God to oblige.

For This cannot be real.

How do I confront this reality. One where you once were, and time will pass, and empty pain will flow silver hot into the gaps you’ve left behind.

This cannot be real.

I inch outside the far edges of “this mortal frame”, licking the air in a desperate attempt to sense you here, somewhere, with us, with all of us. And all I feel is your absence loom like a gaping truth around me. So fucked up, this.

Sometimes the realest things are the hardest to believe.  Like the fact that you were here, that you saw me, that you wobbled clumsy white clouds into my blaring sunlight, and gave me just the kind of weather I love.  Knowing you existed, soul-friend, heart string, writer, dreamer, wanderer and all; made life so much sweeter.

2000 kilometers made nothing.

Now your letters remain the only extension of you I can keep. And that humongous hole you left behind, the only thing that proves you were real.

For you were real. And how utterly humbled I am to have known you, loved you and been showered in your bitter-sweet dilemmas with life, and how we, us common folk, (so unlike you), live it.

You, fool you, you big old Velveteen Rabbit, waiting to be real.

I guess the sweetest tragedy in all of this, is that you had no idea how real you were; to me, to her, to us. To all of us! Your clueless heart galloped on, so unforgiving to its imaginary flaws. I wish you saw how flawed we were too. How flawed we are. But you never did.

Your quest was left unfinished.

I want to holler at every staring face to “cry with me!”  “Don’t you see what’s happened! My friend. . . he’s gone. . .and he’s taken something warm and fuzzy, and innocent with him.”

“Cry with me!  He’s gone. . . and something wonderful has gone with him.”


She Loves me. .

She comes back to me in flashes. Like 3 am dreams I can’t unmake, and uncomfortable nights between the past, a present I miss, and their battle in the silence. She comes back to me in flashes.  Like a whisper I wont let myself forget.

Her towering frame folds into me in overlapping heaves of quiet madness. And her eyes flicker and move and her lips churn in voices I can no longer hear.

. . .But she loves me.

Her love nooses around my neck and marks its territory. It twists into these contours and walks with me. It gullies through my quiet thinking and chokes me. It bangs against these aching walls, and haunts me empty. 

But she loves me. . .

I dream of her love in dreams I will not dare to have. In them, she captures me whole and eats me.
I cannot un-break and still, she breaks me.  She has programmed me to succumb. 

. . .But she loves me. . .

She loves me enough to steal the only blood I know. She wants to keep me. She wants me to herself so she sits by me as we watch the thing we love the most destroy itself with her wizardry. 

She will have the best of me. 

The world cheers on in celebration, not wanting to be reminded of the places I have been. So I masquerade between their world and mine, part losing myself in this make-believe. 

Sometimes it strikes me weak. The memory of her death punches through the atmosphere in a gasp that swears to swallow me.  

So I weave curtains with these tears and paint patterns with these stories no one else can understand, and drape them around me.

In life, she made nothing of me. In death she makes me strange.

But she loves me.