i
and forgive me that I do not know how to begin.
there is no clutch in this story you’re about to hear,
just like this world and all her cognates that is no illusion,
but films and gramophones, rolling on and on.
 
ii
my palms bear no lines but bridges of realities.
touch them. do you feel me walking into your body
and becoming a wardrobe of moth-eaten clothes?
yes. i know. it’s a story of lovers who drifted apart at the cinema.
 
iii
i get confused at choosing how not to fold into silts.
that is the truth. i do not know how to keep all my memories:
i lost some at the backyard when the boy down the street kissed me.
so i ask, if i stand by my window, will the world see me as a portrait?
 
iv
i looked into the mirror last night and saw how
two halves can shape shift and become me. but i want
to defile gravity, i want to see how many men
i can split into.
 
v
love has never walked out of this house i call body.
or even stood in the nude before anybody.
no. i am not selfish. i only want to have my
hands inside the pockets and watch the april
clouds bouncing like a butterfly in the air.
 
vi
i want to know: if i stand long enough in this place,
will my body become a monument?
 
vii
i want to know: if the body is like a glass,
just as some poets say, does it mean that
all the things that come out of it and go into it
are reflections?
 
viii
tell me: what should i think of the girl
who smiled at me down the street and
tucked away? or the boy who saw me
at the mall and mauled his greetings
into a cart?
 
ix
bless this day and call it Wednesday.
 
x
forgive me when i say i bear a great number
of things i do not like. and i cannot name them.
forgive me. forgive me that i do not know your name.
forgive me that i do not know how to end this story.