like every language,
i want to be placed on the tongue.
i want my body to be given a name
the soft downpour of rain
will only come forth
to cleanse but never erase.
from a kapok, I am liking myself
a boy filling himself with fresh water
that is he runs into the past
& there is nothing there to find
except his hands. touching a man
gently doesn’t mean love
if none of them is patient enough
to know what the ending looks like.
once I stared into an ocean,
my dreams was a sinking boat
begging to be saved, yet I kept staring.
& I kept staring.
because my hands were not mine
& nothing really matters.
because most times all we wanted
was flow out of this body
we fail to remember
how the throat will always have more life
than water.
how can a man stop himself
from drowning
when there is nobody
to sing him away from water?
how does a bird defy departure
while an arrow runaway with its voice?
i am asking because this room is empty
& I am only left with myself.
left with myself i am only left
& a little body of water.













Photo by Kevin Grieve on Unsplash