Lackadaisical fingerprint

Midnight churchyard covered under the warm moonlight,
it was full moon and I was looking at its ugly craters,
fearing that you may turn into a werewolf murdering the cuddled couple with felicitation.
The tablet in the niche conquers my literacy when
you read the missing words out loud half awake half dreaming.
The coldness of the stone, chillness of the brizz of late summer evening, and
the rusty codelock on the bishop’s door.
Nine to the power nine possibilities of our future,
subtracted by the lackadaisical fingerprints.
You helped me finding the way in without coming up with my way out;
trapped in the darkness I’m still appreciated.

Long term observation

He told her once, next time you fall into someone, you will still fall like this. There is nothing consuming the real you or the way you feel; what you think that hides it or diminishes it is just something not enough for you. When it gets there, you won’t be able to escape.

After so many years, these words still haunted in her mind whenever she thinks about people she has encountered in her life. It applies to all those coming toward or walking away from her; it is a flawless theory about her.


Summertime, even the brown Central parking on the street is like a piece of butter and lemon juice marinated chicken on a casted iron grill. Five minutes ago, the doorbell rang, she got up and opened the door–one of the things she hates most now since it reminds her where she is. The woman standing outside is a strange face; so does hers to her. The woman was surprised and became nervous.

“I’m so sorry I may knock the wrong door.” The woman apologized. The creamy colored Yorkshire immediately grabbed her attention.
“Hey handsome! Excuse me, who are you looking for?” she asked, feeling so safe wearing that indoor gray T-shirt claiming to the whole world where did she come from.
“Is Lynn here?” the woman asked.
“No, she is out. I could pass a message though.” She smiled, as much polite as she could.
“I’m just returning the bowl.” The woman handed a small microwave glass container to her; she took it.
“I’ll tell her you stopped by.” She says it to the woman, but cannot help looking at the dog.
“Ok, thank you then.” She just noticed the woman wears sneakers and a pink sweatshirt.
Who will hate summer like this just as she once loved that nothingness smell? She closed the door, and that question disappeared with the bumping sound.


But I left my teeth behind;
Evil will come alive,
crawling in the dimmed office with dried gingerbread man.
You will come across,
holding dripping candles from our last birthday,
always reminding of the past time and the deadly silent tomorrow.

When the popcorn machine past the biggest Greek in town,
when tanks and helicopters claim sex wars,
when moon has been shaded by clouds,
when pumpkins and bird nests have been covered up by spider webs,
that would be my time to bite, my era to fight,
with the burning wheel and spear,
in my shaking hands disabled to leave everything right behind.

I will be intoxicated, I will be forgot,
I will leap like a squirrel in the dying girl’s prosperous tree truck,
die with her in the first beam of daylight permeating through the seamless skyline;
then come back to life alone in unpredictable dawns.
The candies are all for kids and the new;
there is nothing for the non-existing adults and the evaporated old.
After we die, judgement that never applies to age
would apply to lifes.

Early and late

It was early, it is late.

Not until she saw her old friend’s post on the open house, did she realize how far she is from there.

She searched for the whole place, the virtual world extremely noisy, extremely quite, extremely cheap, extremely expensive. Then she realized how far she is from there.

Her friend sent her a picture- a kitty walks in the middle of a snow lane. It reminds her her winter coat and the coldness of winter. It haven’t come yet; it wouldn’t have come neither.

She drove dangerously, speeding up in the middle of the lined Palm trees. It is over now, she knows it clearly, but she will have to go back. She remembered many years ago, when she rarely know the language, she learnt the magical phrase “start over”. It amazed her that it doesn’t mean “over”, but “start”; not simply “start”, but “start again”.

Someone in the room walked towards her, asking for a Lemon Ginger tea. She took it out and hand it over. Seeing everyone, anyone struggling doesn’t make her feel good. She suddenly miss the weekend with Endeavour. He is old, but somehow comforted her from another world, the world that she never belongs to yet couldn’t be more familiar with. The touch of its ruber wheels, the coldness beaming through its boundry layers, surrounded her and calmed her down. 

It is late already, but it is still early for her.

and then

and then she is here, starting to go back to Krave, unexpectedly becomes so brave and so timid at the same time, everyTHING around her are all the same, but not any more.

and then she falls, alone in the unbearable loud world, frantically counts too much and too less she has been taught, your names are repeated thousands of times, but no longer here.

and then she forgets, fusing those mango and melon soda water, candidly loves and hates those pinpoints in Doraemon’s drawer, that only sitting here and doing nothing, cannot block out the missing.

and the smell, the smell of its cold air embraces her slightly in that unreachable distance, chanting the early Sunday mornings in the Church, the late evening train going out of the city. She disappears, for so many times, from so many Others; she thought she’d rarely miss.

it has been too long already, it has been a century or more, even Leon’s flower has already grown up, even the musical tour has already gone to another city. She knows exactly if she could go back, she’d go there, rather than using what’s stored there as the worst excuse.

The ocean at the end of the lane

As I told you, I like the sunset, but I don’t love it.
Then, I don’t want my hand to appear in front of my camera any more.

Lettie told him once, do not let go of her hands.
He failed to do so, and for thousands of times he came back to that place without her; it could still heal him.

For many times each day, I think about those bright lights, and the second prettiest smile in this world, along with the coconut dark chocolate and the nothingness clean smell of your T-shirt.


The oddness of a game store next to a gun shop,
chained association with your senior debt of Werewolf and Alchemist,
Freud’s story has been told to so many Others,
along with the nights I spent on the attic.

Yet nobody has ever seen my genuine joy,
without looking through your lens on the train leaving backwards;
Yet no other place has ever comforted my sadness,
with the mist with the rain without the sunshine without the wind.

The stamps with best wishes, balloons from the red restaurant,
exhaust bad dreams horror movies and all the monster legends.
I forget how to dying in the past with those crazy drivers guide me through the mountain,
passing by the best simple meal and our middle sized amusement park.