She listened to the silence at night. She looked up at the ceiling to see her hands dancing in the shadows. She wondered why people smelt fear in darkness and happiness in light. Her hands kept dancing, fingers folded and unfolded in shapes of stars and butterflies. She paused for a moment to count on the hellos her hands waved for and the fists she held down instead of goodbyes. It was time for the dance to stop. She took a deep breath and let go of her hands. She closed her eyes. And she kept listening to the silence.


I Hold

You are like a magnet on a fridge. You are latched onto my memories. Once in a while, I stare at you. I notice you. But most of the times, I don’t. But you are there—removable, but holding still, resisting gravity, paused when the rest of me rides on. You hold a piece of photograph that smells like a rugged old book from a used bookstore. You exist. You are a nostalgia. And that’s ok. But I, I hold rays of sunrises to come.

A Crow’s Foot

One alphabet at a time, my ballpoint pen spits out words on a page. I press on the plastic pen like I can break glass with my finger tips. Through the grip echoes my muscle, moving the piercing edge of the ink. With a roll, the black ink oozes out, leaving scars against the paper and through the pages; bold, rugged, and messy. I write words that scream. Words that are poisonous and ugly. Filthy and unforgiven. My hand loses concentration. The pen drops. Though the grip remains. My hand pauses still in the shape of a crow’s foot. If my arms had wings, they’d flown away. So I’d never had to write.

An Old Pair

They never stopped breathing for me. My pair of nostrils are steady. It comes tricky with the mouth. It’s the only part of a face that doesn’t come in a pair. Peculiar. A mouth knows how to do thousands of things like eating, speaking, laughing, praising, cursing, smiling, frowning, and kissing. But right now, I’m trying to grow an old pair of eyes and ears—learn to look and listen well. Someday, right?


I imagine to tickle my mind. I giggle loudly inside.

Eyebrows sifting left to right, I am lying on a grass field

under a gush of warm breeze of July.

I wonder maybe, you will come home and smile.

I wonder maybe, tomorrow will mesmerize and shine.

Across the sky, I will lift up my hands,

Draw a skyline on the tips of my composing,

And breathe in music notes in swirly lines

— I imagine to tickle my mind.