Won’t you feel sad?

She took her girl friend for a coffee. 

Her friend suddenly mentioned something far past:”But now he is married.”

She answered:”Yup.”

“I saw it that day. But I thought I shouldn’t be the one to tell you. You are gonna be sad and I don’t want that.”

“It’s ok. I knew there would be the day.”

“I thought you’d hurt.”

“No I’m actually not. I’m happy for him. I knew who he was, and I know who he is, and he will be the person he hoped to be. I’m truly happy for him. And thanks for not letting me know. I figured it out myself ahead of the ‘news’.”

“It’s interesting that you let it go this easy.”

“It’s just because I could do nothing. It’s just nice to see him being himself. I know he has been searching for too long. This is what he always wanted to have. Its nice that he finally found it.”

but for this story, there is no start; there would be no end.

She seeks him on others, details and traces and shadows and smells, but not the whole. 

Maybe this is why it gets her and the new story touches the same spot after so many years.

She whispers and hums the lines, but there is no start; there would be no end.



It felt so far away yet so close.

I never thought that I’d go this far. Almost ten years ago, I’ve been told it winds up all of your consciousness and reasons, for once will lasts.

Until I feel it, I can truly understand.

The excitement, the fear, and the joy; the known, the need, and the NOW. This is how it comparable to the ideal, in terms of the form and everything goes with it. This is also how it is comparable to the non-ideal, since the missionary is not my priest.

The quiver, the shake, and the ache; the sound, the smell, and the speed. This is how it comparable to the insurmountable past, in terms of the montage and every scene come across. This is also how it is comparable to the non-stop, since the young wait already gets old.

This has nothing to do with sublimation; this has nothing to do with Freud’s art. I felt it without thinking, experienced it without articulating.


If you give it to me,
I’d wear it with my bare soul,
with my feet sinking into the sand,
with my view blinded by the sun.

If you give it to me,
I’d keep it with my flesh heart,
pumping the hell up to the above,
drifting all dirts down to the ground.

If you give it to me,
I’d kiss it with my grinning lips,
shutting those cries and whispers out,
forbidding harsh or inconsiderate touches.

If you give it to me,
I’d embrace it to fall asleep,
and even in my endless dream,
and even in my earth folded realm.


Sometimes I think if
I was a vampire
would I play around, love and hate
Someone comes someone goes
there would still be one person so special
that I could never forget
through light years
through wormhole or blackhole,
distorting my perception on time and space
coldness and warmth.
I’d never say love
all of my strongest emotions and
my tiniest sensations
would have span around
making the world upside down
dark night lighted up by the curve of the corner of his smiling lips.
I’d let him stay;
I’d let him live;
I’d keep my lethal feeling of seeing him fading away by myself;
I’d talk about history with him;
I’d sing old rhyme for him;
I’d hold his hands feel his flesh and bones.
If I was a vampire,
I would have play around lust and sade
never believe love and fate
I would wait and wait and wait until
things that I do not believe bringing you here
in front of my blurring eyes,
lit up the torch of life, the life that one could
and only could live once
with a visible beginning,
with a visible end.

This road

This road leads to a place far far away,

with losing those I’ve known for years and

gaining those I’ve never expected to meet.

Things never stay at the place where they were;

I begged it happen yet it never did;

I tried to escape yet just loitering at the same locale,

with those capricious words guide me out yet refuse to take me home.

The rain

The rain lasts

Forever and ever

Washing away dirt and sins and memory

And bringing an almond smell of my woolen coat

The expanding ego calmed down, sizzling with white smoke

The blur foggy scene evaporates into

Our young rebel forgetful heart

Teal plum golden rings in the empty champagne glass

There is no metaphor existing in dream or the world spoke out of your mouth

The best of you

He peed on my daffodils, on the morning dew, like a monkey standing still.

He dug the mine from my treasure mountain, making charcoal out of it to

pay off the debt he owned to the gardener.

He smiled at the sun; it burnt his eyes with a sizzling sound. Bloody liquid running down his cheeks, I

never saw something as beautiful as that–an expanded kaleidoscope pattern mapping out his pale skin. I

never doubt the toxic gin poured in my glass is splashed with legends.

At the border of our kingdom, the endless sleepless nights yet review the last page.