in short, you're gone.
the train has arrived already.
in short, you're no longer here.
fluttering at the edge is a peacock feather,
like it grows on one's eyelashes.
and the oyster of your eyes tethered
at the corners where they tend their pearls;
i almost caught one rolling down those soft hills,
but i missed by a great deal.
i miss you.
and already, i can remember how you rarely smiled,
only on occasion, when those mysterious marbles
would meet with mine.
or how you rarely cried, rarer than the former,
arguing that all the water in you has evaporated over
the years.
and i can still trace my hands with my eyes,
where your fingers shyly caressed.
or how the pitches of words you delicately spoke
coincidentally harmonized with mine.
like a ghost of a husband haunting a widow,
you linger on my bare trees with the smell of winter.
(c) 2003 mai kozai
silence is also music. {2:18 AM}
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
her hair knots into beautiful shapes,
but she frantically searches for her brush.
"there you are," she sighs,
and the masterpieces are gone.
she says her lips were never full enough,
so she never left it alone in the buff.
"there you are," she murmurs,
and smears on a subtle shade of pink.
her toes suffocate in the darkness,
inside an uncomfortable shoe, wishing to see what she sees.
"there you are," she ponders,
and tightly secures all ten into manmade abyss.
she says her eyes are too ordinary,
that she needs to decorate them with pretty colors.
"there you are," she babbles,
and colors her eyes in shades of denial.
(c)2003 mai kozai
silence is also music. {8:23 PM}
the poet
mai sharona.
december 5, 1984.
davis, california.
a sucker for flowers.
