The fall

He is one thing when he speaks.
Collectedness. It comes out his mouth
when he talks, right inside me,
catches me off guard, I stumble.
I am not afraid of the fall.

The writer

I grow up a solid poem by his hands.
In the poem, I'm a prisoner to my own words,
too small for a sight of the sky,
this is how deep he can see me inside,
my thoughts carved to stone walls.

I write about the writer, he laughs
and the sound of his laughter is the
only sound I know, a leak on my soul
he comes through. As lonely as I am,
I enjoy his stay.

The letter

It doesn't say much.

I say everything in poems,

I hope you know these

are my best words, 

that they live in paper

before the cloud,

that I mean them 

for you. 

Upward

When by truth you mean
a house on the hill.

The people in the house are three,
sometimes friends come over.

The days in the house, the hours,
they are memories you never tell me about.

But if we had met then,
if we had played outside

when streets were still safe
and children could play outside

for hours before dinner was ready,
before having to walk down the hill with

your voice carrying me home
a thought of you showing on my lips.

I would be true for you then.

Twelve fifty-nine and sixty seconds

Let's not ruin it
with words.

You look me in the eyes,
It's nothing but a second, it won't hurt.

I'll step inside you for that second,
your secret world won't fall apart,

I won't move a thing,
I promise.

But if eventually your eyes
don't leave mine,

or I fall asleep
inside your rib cage,

how bad can it be
to lose control over ourselves

for one leap second?



(The Paris Observatory announced last week that a leap second will be added to the year 2015, on June the 30th. Read about it here)