"Vancouver"

Days are doting

from blurry mornings

Time is doing 

its usual thing. 

Running and ditching,

like how we chase, afraid of

not reaching the 99 —

look how it’s fleeting.

Fast a week in and

I’d say, “Stop counting.”

Riding, driving,

Eating, immersing

In the blue wide west; 

a coast happily rests 

at its state — 

Forever in her 

Twenties 

stretching, ready;

forming and delving into

its absolute splendid

Best.

"Homecoming"

The red wine 

sensuously 

streams down my throat

My mind,

so high —

Coffee? Tea? 

Suddenly, all these drugs were in front of me. 

Home was 

ahead of me. 

Yet I had no idea I

was going for an epilogue. 

The minimal, 

most quiet kind of exchange 

of sentiments;

silent handshake of air

awaits. Bittersweetness. 

Looking out the tiny window,

depressant and stimulant laid out 

on this awkward table.

While my eyes beamed,

the idea of you

locking away us into the museum of memory

was at once impossible and cruel,

but somehow somewhere

an idea I had.

Yet I had no idea you

are the braver of us —

perhaps the one

bruised, wrenched. Cut-

throat and defensively, you

draw out the dagger

of conclusion.