“And that taught me you can’t have anything, you can’t have anything at all. Because desire just cheats you. It’s like a sunbeam skipping here and there about a room. It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we poor fools try to grasp it—but when we do the sunbeam moves on to something else, and you’ve got the inconsequential part, but the glitter that made you want it is gone.”

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and the Damned

At A Loss

How do you explain the fashion in which the crisp breeze
wraps around the slender figure of a skater
As she pirouettes atop the freshly polished ice
Whipping her body like a snake around its prey
To one that’s never stepped into a pair of skates
Laced tight around their ankles
or seen the light reflect across the surface of the rink?

How do you explain the feeling of soil, trapped beneath your fingernails
Hands stained brown, muggy and smelling of the earth
Back hunched as sweat drips from every pore
To one that hasn’t waited for the rain
to ease the sweltering heat of the midday sun
or lived through taxing toil?

How do you explain home to someone that wakes up to a new view outside their bedroom window every few months?
Or to someone who knows that for them, there is neither a house nor home?
Where friends are figments from stories they’ve heard
And the only constant is the shirt they acquired years ago
And no amount of smiles or spare change will repaint the scenery

How do you explain the absence of worry and fear to someone that fights to suppress their anxious monsters?
When counting sheep keeps their mind sharp and more aware of their own heartbeat
When after every wave of splendor, they prepare for pangs of peril
Because too good to be true is just so

How do you explain unrequited love to someone that has never felt the loss?
Holding fresh coffee in your hands
Staring at the door for the moment
they’ll arrive to take another sip of you
You’ve run dry

How do you explain the weight of the world to someone that’s never held it on their shoulders?
Boulders bearing travesties that break your levees
Leaving you bare to bathe in tragedy

How do I explain my dreams to someone that has long forgotten to lift the brush and paint their own?
The strokes used to be so vivid
You could see the stardust from which they had been born

But most importantly, how do you remind someone that turned their back on life
That their dream was once filled with most ideal landscapes
With freeing breaths and winds pushing with their current


She tumbled relentlessly with the swirling waves
The rhythmic percussion her favorite melody
You could see her glistening as the white fringes rose
Her figure and her hue distorted in the depth
She holds tightly to every over pronounced arch
Refusing to accept her destiny with every waving roar
Lying on the outskirts of the foaming bank
She bears her twisting tapers and pearlescent curves
With sand castles cascading at their feet, no one stops to see
Children sift through stones and run from the jellyfish swept ashore
Lying on the outskirts of the foaming bank
She isn’t what they search for but she would never sting
As they run into the water, she’s buried away beneath the sand
With flecks of silver and gold
Another lifts her up above his head
She catapults into the depths landing effortlessly
Her edges fraying with the days
Her gleam erased by the salt and sun
Undulating, she’s back to mingle with the crusted weeds
Suddenly he stops, admiring the ridges of her remaining fragments
He looks to the horizon
Breathes in the end of summer
And carries her home


Vivid landscapes pour out in words

A million thoughts escaping

Free at last

Hours floating into one

Then as the clock strikes twelve

You shrink back into your shell again


We must start over

So characteristic of your zodiac

Morn says- though he himself is not a poet –

“It should be thus: in the flicker of daily life,

unexpectedly, in the chance of combination

of light and shadow, you feel within yourself

the divine happiness of conception:

it grabs you and is gone; but the muse knows

that in a quiet hour, in the seclusion

of the night, the poem will begin to beat

and fly off the tongue, fiery and babbling…”

– (Scene II, Act I) The Tragedy of Mr. Morn by Vladimir Nabokov


Like a child to their first balloon
She clung to the fantasies that raced
With their own trajectories
Her face, childlike, with eyes of newborn wonder
I smiled at her innocence, filling with a youthfulness of my own
As children, we grow comfortable much too quickly
Spit out ideas with no concrete plans
Without cognizance, we unwrap our gentle fingers
Fearless of what we’ll grab ahold of next
But as the bright helium bubble floats on
The crushing reality begins to take its place
I breathe the youthfulness out and watch her
A beautiful little fool

Inspired by:

“That’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”
– Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald