SYNESTHESIA

In between the mundane seconds of a yellow Sunday afternoon and the stale poppies melting on my ill windowsill I hear your grey voice rushing in sea waves Echoing in my brain's camphoraceous caves Conquering my body like it's a war zone fighting for my sanity And the faces of your face are rip-offs clinging …

I’M GONNA MISS YOU

Whenever tragedy hits me in the core, a montage flashes before my iris. I see faces and bodies. I see resurrection of stories and memories. I see stitched skin ruptures, marks outstretch, the inhumed wounds exhume. I think of my grandmother, my grandfather. I think of a Japanese sun, and my father. My fist trembles …