she comes to me
in the dead hours of the night
she comes
and not for the first time

she has been coming to me
telling me things
telling me truths
telling me fictions
filling me with words and thoughts
of who she is and what she wants to be
answering my questions
while i sleep
while i wake
while i do

whispering to me
bring me alive

i feel her urgency inside me
this woman who has been living in my thoughts
for days. for weeks. for months.
i feel her urgency to be born. to emerge.
to be released
limbs of flesh and blood and bone
splayed across both earth and sky

i birthed her last night

and this morning
on a new day
she inhabits pages of script
beloved and bled
from agonizing mind and quivering fingers
pages bled in the blindness of night
and she tells me she wishes to inhabit
more and more and more

what can i do but oblige?

i am alive
she is alive

i am her creator



she spoke of bliss.

and while she spoke, i drifted in my own thoughts, her voice a blanket for my mental wanderings. but then she paused, abruptly, while taking a deep breath filled with palpable nostalgia. 

i asked her, what do you think is the color of bliss?

she looked at me, baffled and confused. does bliss have a color? she said, her face giving her away completely. giving away how superficially, how shallowly, she had taken my question. 

how rudimentary! i thought. how elementary! and, though i knew it would challenge her further with too much responsibility, i said, let’s put it like this: if bliss had a color… if… what would you say that color is?

she regarded me with frustration, caution.

and i bit my tongue while baulking at my own delusion. or was that sanctimoniousness?

or… was it simple naïveté?



i like to talk
in the blue hours of night
while the moon sits
upon a throne of stars
waiting to receive my tales
and glowing at my telling
and last night, we sat
the moon and i
and she said to me

i adore what you sing, dear
those sweet soliloquies
you think i don’t hear
now story me more
of your delicious fancies
and i will twine your fingers
and i will spark your eyes
and i will crown your spirit
with new inspiration



another unsent letter

Dear I.,

I went to sleep last night thinking, There, I’ve gone and done it again! I chided myself for not saying what I meant… what I wanted… to say. And all along the words were waiting on the tip of my tongue… waiting for me to part my lips and release them.

Do you know the feeling inside that moment? When you want to say something and you’ve got it right there on the tip of your tongue? And you just know that this time… this time… you will say it… but then something else comes out? It’s as if another’s voice has possessed your spirit… and is stealing your breath… and is speaking through your lips… and is stealing your soul. It’s the feeling of impotence that is most breaking, in that moment. The feeling that you should be doing something… could be doing something… but you’re not… because you can’t. No. Because you won’t!

How do I make time go back so I can say to you what I needed to say? These words are frozen inside my throat. But… if it were possible for time to go back… even then… mine would be a fabricated… forced… staged statement.

I stage scenarios inside my head, and when the instant comes to execute them… I execute them, in the true sense of the word ‘execute.’ I murder the act before it is born. And I am left with my hands parted in wordless dejection.

Will you ever forgive me? I will never forgive you if you do.




let it be mine
the thought that’s born
inside my bones

let it look like me
taste of my flesh, my blood
and smell of my skin

let it be like nobody else’s
that i might call it

let it always be pure
let it always be true

let it always be me



certain mornings
i awaken
with skin
glowing brighter
with a new discovery
having breathed
a new air
having undergone
a new excavation
of self