A Cloudy Sky


I felt the loneliness of this winter
softly sweeping away the converging parts of the sun

I heard the proud moans of the afternoon
over the empty trees. The humble silence
grabbed their looks,
and just as if they were

their mouths wobbled, bemused

shrouds of comfort.
This loneliness emerging out of
keepsakes snug
inside my pocket, burst forth
in the tepid air

It was winter in Los Angeles

My mother grew older,
and we remained up on the corner
where birds faced east, ah-
up the dust turned grainy in the cold wind
(It bothered me finding it on the windowsill)

Hopes that
ran away from me
bespoke of little change in the cerulean sky;
there were no differences, no hidden lies

The hills suppressed under weighty skyscrapers
slurred through the senseless feet
of suits
running out of time
like my mother, except
their visions floated,
not yet trapped,
ready to tap
into some shroud of light

Any day now in cloudy Los Angeles.


in loop

short story

Don’t go over there. There’s the edge, right underneath that bush. If you waver, you’re done for.

But still I crept, crying as they kept pushing and yelling. Someone tried to pull me away from her.

I am not crying as we hold hands and toss made up words in the air, every day.

I woke up and I thought I remembered being here, by the desolate plane, crowned by a single bush. Then he came and warned me to stay close or else I would fall. When I fall it doesn’t feel endless at all.

Still, I was thinking of the time we held each other’s hands.