I make twin braids at the front of my hair so that you might use them as reigns to guide me to safety Where there are sailboats, and...

A sickly-yellow arm of the Sun draws upon my brow. It beckons me to my August window, clinging closely to the eggshell-plaster draped...

My heart, It carries the hem of yours Threaded to its cottony pillow Where it teaches my skin its name, and yours; I love you as the sand...

Last night I dreamt of a carousel horse. It lingered just outside my doorstep, patiently waiting for thumbed assistance to ring the...

I am asleep again. No, in sleep. I am not simply resting; in fact I'm not resting at all. My eyes close like the tin shutter of a...

The old woman, from within the creases of her lower ribs -the floating ones- brings out a bead. She places it in a ceramic bowl,...

And when our demons are asleep, there is always a morning. It is one they do not see. This is when they are numb. And yet another sun raises

I’m scrolling through my gallery, slowly going back in time. There are only pictures here, no words; at least, none that you can see....

I The dust walks me through the corridor, sticking to my clothes, pushing them closer to my skin. The fabric is soft. We speak; our...

I Down your wine Down your wine Why do you not drink it? I have been sipping mine, and swirling it in large concentric circles with the...

Still, my mind knows to read from your words better that I do. It has them in the cradle of its forearm. 𝐷𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑖𝑡?

My arm drapes itself over the half-cylinder of the sofa, as I lay my neck in the cradle of its head, and in my mind, step onto a ledge....

Their arms lay limp, clutching the arms of the sofa - the one that's the size of a canoe. Just like that they sail as its oars, taking...

“Step onto misunderstandings”, she says,“and feel the quicksand knit around the needles of your toes.”

There it goes, under my skin. Is it really here to drink blood? Maybe I'll ask; if only I could see where it was.

I place my feet in the crevice of jute fibres, As we walk above the city...

Sometimes light staggers in -along with the dust that it drinks many a night- and gently touches our dinner table, circling round the plates

Our home lies amidst mills of Silence where we often float on the boats outside our foggy windows sheathed by curtains.

As my calluses kiss the keys on this hollow piano I trace the thread tied to the birthmark on my knuckle