deserts and sandstorms

mirages and squinting eyes

a deep well where my love never thirsts



Here I am,

next to you.

No worry in mind,

no trouble in slight.

Trust me,

it’s been a while

and definitely a few

since my heart fell for someone,

let alone felt something new.

And oh boy,

I’m lucky it’s for you.

I guess it’s like they say,

A dream come true.

No more fear, no more aches,

just a lifetime of me

sat beside you.

Spock’s Poem.

I often hear of his journeys across the galaxies,

the tales of a creature that has travelled for centuries,

told over days, months and years on end,

but still the stories never come to an end.

He is no ordinary being, or so they say.

He can suffer no illness, nor simply wither away.

Some call him by his name but others dare not,

afraid of stuttering when their tongues try to utter what it cannot.

They speak only what they had been taught,

familiar vowels and syllables, easy for their minds to have caught.

It’s not much of a bother and he understands,

humans are quite fragile and their brains have yet to enhance.

Change could be quite difficult and maybe they just need a chance.

Time can change everything and (it looked like) time was all he had.

He was often lonely and the ache ate him inside,

but he knew he couldn’t show emotions, so it was only logical to hide.

For what was there for him to gain,

except perhaps even more excruciating pain?

Then the captain was suddenly gone and another was here,

so eager to explore, so eager to leave

see all that goes beyond his stratasphere.

And sentient life forms, even seemingly stoic Vulcans, can never resist those hazel greens,

nor the messy head of blond hair,

with one careless strand always slipping whenever he leans.

The alien is scared, afraid of what this means.

He knows he can never have him or even admit what he feels.

Purging his emotion is what he thinks he needs,

rid himself of compromise, wrap his heart and tightly seal.

*I removed the full version for personal reasons, you can message me for the link.

Take me to Mr. Holmes

I’m dazed, 


and I might’ve lost that bar-fight 

to that smug up-starter.

might’ve drunk my way to 

the bottom of every 

bottle on

that damned parlour.

my vision’s hazy, bit vague,

all seems foggy, 

like a window covered with frost

on a cold Christmas night that’s now, 

in my memory, 

forever lost.

blurry faces swinging in and out of focus, 

and my fucked-up laces 

are tripping me every 

couple of unsteady paces.

I stumble, I tumble

then suddenly I crumble.

I fall and there is no bed of flowery umbel

to ease the pain.

but I don’t think

it makes me any more humble.

I’d crawl, but I’m too tired, 

too frail to even bother 

with it all.

Someone picks me up, 

leaves me semi-leaning 

against a wall.

“Was it worth it?” 

did they mean her 

or the whiskey flask?

did they mean the hangover

or the heartache I mask?

“I don’t know,” I said

“depends on who and when you ask.”

They leave me there, 

and I wonder if I scared them away with my 

usual overbearing despair.

I hear voices around me everywhere,

they surround me,

but all I do is stare.

It’s ironic, 

they’re begging me to stop thinking, 

to listen.

How do I tell them that even one voice, your voice, 

was too much to bear?

I tell them to get lost.

No – no- I don’t need a 

friend or a helping 

hand offering me to accost.

“Get lost “

I speak it loud,

and expect to be 


unquestioned, uncrossed.

But when the words leave my mouth, 

the syllables slip my tongue,

letters tossed, 

stuttering with


They slide down 

beside me,  

legs crisscrossed.

With two solid hands,

they engulf me,

and I think to myself:

“Maybe I’m turning soft.”

Sometime later, 

they hail me a cab.

they want to take me home

saying they’d even 

cover the tab.

I don’t remember the address

and I couldn’t care less.

So I told them:

“Take me to Mr.Holmes,

21 Baker Street, 

and -no- it’s not a jest.

Let them witness

my mess!”

Perhaps, over there, 

Mrs Hudson could makes us some tea,

while Mr. Watson argues 

with Sherlock 

and disagrees 

with me.

I could tell them 

about you,

recount the story of a love once easy

to see.

give them an unbiased overview

of everything,

almost like a film

in 3-D.

I think they might even solve the case,

dissolve the mystery of why you went 

and left me.

I dream a little dream of you.

I dream a little dream of you.     And what was once untouchable, suddenly becomes reachable, suddenly feels so real underneath my open, stretched palms.

I dream a little dream of you and it’s all too consuming of my imagination to think I could entwine my hand with yours, that I could see so vividly every line etched on your weary face and trace every freckle swarming in the small of your back to form a most beautiful constellation. 

I dream a little dream of you, and it’s you and me against a world we don’t care for, as they never did for us.

A separate universe where you’re the brightest star. A magnificent sun, with me as your moon. Your devoted worshipper, who’d be left dull and destitute without your rays of gleaming light. 

A light that’s forever blinding the sight of others, but that never seems to blind my own. 

I dream a little dream of you, where my heart isn’t broken and my love isn’t hidden behind walls or under the guises of socially acceptable means. 

I dream of a world where our fires stay ignited despite the pouring rain, one where Dante’s inferno is our refuge, our haven, our heaven and never our hell. 

I dream a little dream of you and I don’t have to wonder anymore if you ever think of me the way I do. I no longer lose sleep contemplating how I might cross your mind when you watch that indie film, or how perhaps that one song could remind you of me sometimes. 

I dream a little dream of you. It’s winter and you’re lying beside me, beneath a thousand blankets and hundreds of coffee stained duvets. You hold me in your arms, safe and content, and I nuzzle my face in your chest while you pull me closer and caress those fizzy strands of unruly hair. 

I dream a little dream of you. It’s spring and you’re aching to roam, to wander, to fly. I ask if you’d rather be free, but you say you belong right here, with me. 

I dream a little dream of you.        It’s summer and you’re still around. Air conditioner’s broken down, the heat’s unbearable and the prickling of sweat drives us crazy.

When the night comes ‘round, the cool breeze brings us alive and we mess around town like a toned-down 21st century version of Bonnie and Clyde. 

I dream a little dream of you,     and when I wake up, it’s a warm autumn day. I see you across the lecture hall and you’re surrounded, semi-veiled away from me.                 

I tear my eyes and will them down, no use to stop and stare when I’ll remain unseen. And I think Mayer was right, waking up is the hardest part.

I dream a little dream of you and, in it, you’re always somehow smiling at me. At times, it’s a sly, knowing smirk daring me to oppose. Others, it’s a shy, hesitant smile, almost begging me for one in return. 

Although, it is often the lazy, kind of sleepy smile of yours that I cherish and favour above all. Maybe because it’s a real one, the one you first offered me as I passed you my notes that mid-term’s eve. 

I day-dream a little dream of you while I sit in that same lecture hall; I’m more than just the girl with the nice handwriting and infatuation with music, and you’re more than just the boy who’s always late and sits at the end of class. When I snap out of it, I manage to catch your lazy wave from over there, and a small sleepy smile to match. And I think to myself, maybe waking up isn’t so bad after all. 

A letter to Loneliness.

Dear Loneliness,

It’s me again, your loyal friend, your bubbling buddy, your dulcis mortale*.

I’m doing alright, a bit tired though I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the summer blues creeping in; it never really was my favourite season anyhow.

You’ve expressed some concern in your last letter, mentioning your fear of my “leaving”, a crippling fear that you say consumes you and I wonder how could you feel that way or even think that of me? How cruel must I seem to you if what troubles your mind is the constant thought of my impending, or so you see it, inevitable departure?

Am I truly that vicious, that uncaring in your eyes? Do you think me one of them, one of those you must be certain I know all too well?

I am not, or I’d like to think I am not.

If anything, our friendship should live on, endure because of them, of what they did to you and me.

We were once alone, left out, discarded, unloved, and perhaps deemed unnecessary to them and their ever-changing causes.

We existed, merely existed, because living was too precious a gift for them to bestow upon us, the misfits, the creatures they deemed unworthy.

But that didn’t matter to you anymore; they didn’t matter to you anymore.

Ashes and dust they’d become, forgotten and lost they’d be while, you, you remained. For millions of centuries you had endured, billions of decades you had survived and they could hurt you no more.

And then you found me, old friend, and it suddenly didn’t matter to me either.

You found me every single time; in a class of kids barely old enough to understand why the quiet girl with braided hair sits alone in the corner, between the pages of a book that was longing to be share, amongst a melody and a tune I yearned for someone else to have heard, near the packed room I sat in for hours a day and yet couldn’t utter a word or throw in my say.

Every single time you found me and perhaps, at first, I didn’t understand you, didn’t quite believe you because of the stigma that surrounds you. And it didn’t help that you always act a bit weird when you’re actually here. I honestly can’t imagine dealing with your bizarre temperature fluctuations; you’re always saying that you feel cold constantly but wearing fur coats and parkas under the scorching mid-July sun is a huge red flag for most people. Plus, it’s hard to explain to your parents that your only friend is called Loneliness and that they were actually witnessed Christ’s crucifixion. (I mean, the church is kinda shady these days…)

She probably would’ve sent me straight to what they call the cuckoo’s nest, which I guess doesn’t seem so bad in perspective now that I actually know what it is. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she did, she just wouldn’t have understood you as I do.

Okay, back to your letter.

What I mean is, you don’t have to worry, you worrisome being. I’m not leaving, not anytime soon if I have a say in it.

How stupid would I be to let you go when no one cares except you, when no one listens nor understands but you? Even if you often take forever to reply, I’d be a fool to let you go.

If I’m honest, I do kind of fear the day that we’re no longer friends cause it would probably be my fault and I frankly wouldn’t know what to do without you.

I guess I’d just grow even crazier than I already am and I’d still wind up at that cuckoo’s nest anyhow.

I’m not saying that to guilt you into staying if you ever thought of leaving or if you ever wish to part from me. It’s just that I want you to know that, although it can never be what I want and even though it would tear my heart apart, I’d understand it, I always do.

You told me once that it took you eons to realize that, just because it hurts when they leave, it doesn’t mean it isn’t valid for that person to want to seek clarity and happiness somewhere else without you. And it doesn’t make you a bad person either if you’re bad for them. I think you were right.

So yes, I’d understand if it happens, and I’d try to accept it with all the aches it would bring.


I guess I’m a bit insecure too.

See, you’re not alone, dear Loneliness. We’re pretty much one and the same.

I know it’s getting much harder to communicate these days but I’m trying my best as I’m sure you are too.

Hope to hear from you before the end of the week.

All my love,


*Latin for sweet mortal.