Jasmine Green Tea

We’re sitting alone
In the coffee shop
Sipping on jasmine green tea
Where we came to be together
So no one would see us
And no one ever did.

I am sitting alone
In the coffee shop
A thousand strangers swarm around me
You walk in from the snow outside
I look twice to make sure it’s you
And it is you.

We’re sitting alone
In the Italian Bistro
Sharing laughs and a canoli
Where we came to read Pessoa
On our first of many nervous lunches
On that cool promising April afternoon

I am sitting alone
In the coffee shop
Sipping on jasmine green tea
As soon as I walk out of the door
You appear unexpectedly
We collide, smile and keep walking

We're sitting alone
on that park bench
underneath the street lamp
You tell me for the first time
you're falling in love with me
and I am alive again.

I am sitting alone
in front of the airport
trying to stop the tears
from falling as I watch
you walk away having told you
I would love you always.

We’re sitting alone
At our computer desks
Ten miles away from each other
You send me a message
Reminding me:
“Yo siempre tendria tiempo para ti”

I am sitting alone
In the coffee shop
Sipping on jasmine green tea
Tinged with the mild hope
That fate would bring you to meet me
But you never came.

August

There is an empty house
In the middle of nowhere
The only place we can belong.

There is a summer we never had
And another chance to be who
We are truly meant to be.

There is a warm night of silence
While the walls of the room
Witness the revival of beauty.

There is the faint light from
A candle illuminating our
Two shadows becoming one.

There is a silent devotion reserved
For our bodies as they speak the words
We can never say out loud to each other.

There is a sonnet on my lips
You read with yours and drink
The words that go unspoken.

There is a meadow of fireflies
Where nature smiles upon
The reunion of our souls.

There is a consistent aching
Infecting my lungs from breathing
in the air of your absence.

There is a certainty our love
Will always exist at least
In the paradox of oblivion.

There is the August we never had
And ten thousand years lived
Together in only these few nights.

There is an empty house
In the middle of nowhere
Waiting for us in August.

The Paradigm of Love

Plato’s forms capture the essence
Of an universal definition to
The concepts we want to believe
Have some consistency
Or at least exist.

Though dangerous to define what we believe
Through our individual experiences
When the world is constantly revolving
There’s an urgent sense of relativity
I cannot ignore when defining

Love.

Since you’ve left I’ve roamed
This land and a handful of men
And met many philosophies
To grace my speculative intellect
And keep me up at night.

Yet In every line of poetry,
Love story summarized in verse or film
One reoccurring redundancy
Captures my imagination each time
Your face appears in perfect

Paradigm.

There’s a paradox alive in this passion
How can there be such
Consistency in my relativity
And persistence of your memory
When deciphering the paradigm of

Love.

Myth

I leave the door unlocked
You silently enter, I pretend
Not to notice
Not to be surprised
But inside
I’m singing.

Our minutes are few
Usually dark with
Only a candle light
When the sun once
Shone everyday
Alive on our
Love.

We’re both uncertain
As we can never leave
This room together
What’s left of our time
Is exhibited once or twice
A month in the most
Innate ways.

And we settle
And accept futility
Lay down together
Where our minutes
Are filled with more
Life than 100 years
Of the commoner.

There is a rapture
Between our bodies
the antithesis of
The world outside
Yet our vernacular
Is spoken through
Our bodies’ embrace.

The night deepens
Our tides crest
A moment of deep breathing
To interrupt the still
Of our silence I desire
To tell you how I have
Loved you all along.

Our minute has passed
As the seasons change
I feel your arms around me
Once more before I lock
The door and wonder maybe
If our myth will last
Forever.

Art Museums Part II

“The state of soul is no doubt responsible for my aversion to museums. The only museum for me is the whole of life, in which the painting is always accurate, the only inaccuracy being in the imperfection of the contemplator. I do what I can do to reduce the imperfection, and if I can’t do anything, then I rest content with the way it is, because, like everything, it can’t be any other way.”

-Fernando Pessoa,"The Book of Disquietude"153

Art Museums Part II

Eternity stretches in the years between us
while scandals become fairy tales
and the abstract sells for millions,

The birth of our creation remains
not only as the masterpiece
waiting in the museum.

But is spoken of in each
whisper of night wind:
Witness of our existence

It is written on each page
of philosophy and poetry:
The vernacular of our love.

It is traced along the silhouette
on the wall where our shadows
embraced one another.

It is carved in the ruins
of the temple that was our bodies
while they held each other.

The world will contemplate
always in flawless imperfection
while perfection exists for those

who are the work of art.

Similarities and Small Dicks

Why are each girl he dates after me
all the same
all either cursed with
small tits
a mile wide behind
manish or Elfish
facial features
you know:
the droopy eyes
larger foreheads
eye brows in need
of tweezing
dark eyes, dark hair
begging to be brushed
and straightened.
A physical appearance
opposite in everyway
to my near perfect
reflection.

To counter such
escape of my ego
all of them also
embody the following
mental defects:
A confused sexuality
either before or after
fucking him
turning them either
straight or gay.

All of them also
are God-loving idiots
determined
they are called
to serving the Lord
and selling his
$50 bottle of
magic juice
while saving sinners
in Jesus' name.
(liquefied indulgences).

All of them also
represent
the exact opposite
of my free-thinking
god-less philosophies.

Maybe he needs to
feel superior
to the ones he
fucks.
Rather live in fear
that she just might
leave him
for a more attractive
and intelligent
man.

Or maybe just one
that doesn’t
beat her.
Or throw
wire hangers,
remote controls,
picture frames
and insults
at her.

Maybe he needs
to feel better
at that
pathetic
two and a half inches
between his legs
and the
“mistakes”
of his past.

Maybe he needs
to feel good
about
his "mistake"
of
abusing
and losing
someone
like
me.