I change in contrast

to the place I claim.


I’m a converse chameleon,

dressed up in anti-camouflage.


I’m right here exposed to all the offerings

of yours, which you did not know you had until


you saw me

in the crowds;

sticking out.


and movies don’t

it could have been a one-shot,

a picture perfect take:


wide striped pants and plain white shirt

running towards his scented neck,

sunlight blushing in the face

of how blue-eyed they are


tipsy, even, turning tables

breathing words or gasping for,

water color painted futures

is that why they shed no tears?


red wine flooding fairy lights

hand on neck and hands in curls,

jumping up, it’s time to leave

the tension in the dark


flying through the streets at night,

someone’s bedroom to be clear,

they choose bridges over boundaries,

that look like railway tracks indeed,


turning onto Ossian Road,

confusing promises and cheeky jokes,

she laughs and won’t believe,

what difference would it make?


Still, there is a chance:

that their performance

feeds on purity —

and movies don’t.


By February 22nd, we would face our:

fingertips like words,

manifestos we could write,

liquids wrapped in tissues,

velvet temples to inhale,

lost keys to open doors,

redundant gears in knee-deep snow,

sofa beds for sleepless nights,

furniture to push and hidden limits, too;

haunting voices when there’s radio silence,

clogged noses in shared space apart,

night flights away, seasons reversed,

peroxide-stubborn hair,

cuts, punctures and incisions,

light feet and heavy tongues,

droughts before day zero,

and  rains that come to send me



falling in love is

like the tattoo

you want to inject

under your skin.

a narrative which

I will wind

around your

silky forearm hair,

your dimples

and your heated chest.

white cars

Sometimes, fear is a white car.

Sometimes, fear blinds you with headlights.

Sometimes, fear comes to a halt one inch before your knees.

Sometimes, fear chases you through residential roads at night:

The bumps, the willow trees, the locked-up gates.

Sometimes, fear has its engines fade

into the breaking dawn.


And sometimes, when the sun lights up

The bumps, the willow trees, the locked-up gates,

You find that you’re turning your head.

There are too many white cars out there.

intersections with T.

When I put polish on my little toe.

Yours was so small you had to paint its flesh.

When I look at my own childhood pictures: Strawberry blond, blue-eyed.

They said we had looked so similar.

Whenever I touch a scarf.

Particularly, when I wear it too tight.

when Betty called him Al

Although Paul Simon’s song

was just about to play

We closed the door behind

our backs – and walked away

into the drizzly rain.

Perhaps it was right then

that I could cease to look

for reasons that would justify

my presence in your life,

and just be there instead.

Perhaps it was right then

that I could find in you,

My friend, my long-lost pal,

as Al can call her Betty

and Betty calls him Al.


in·​no·​cent | \ˈi-nə-sənt

from Latin innocentia,

that denotes no ‘harm‘,

as well from Latin nocere,

‘injuring‘ someone,

or anyone involved.


blameless with integrity,

upright and disinterested,

lacking guilt or artifice

like a child,

protected and naive.


surely free

from legal wrong,

free from guilt and

free from sin,

with candid lack of knowledge,


I declare you are:

ingenuous, artless, ignorant

of the evil you have caused

of the guilt we’re all incapable

to blame you for.

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