Aloha, darling

I woke up next to you that morning

“Aloha, darling.”

Your sleepy eyes and sleepy hands

barely touching me

and your morning breath

still smelling of the generous amounts

of alcohol you consumed the night before

reminding me of Hawaii and sin.

“Aloha, darling.”

Still, I woke up next to you that morning

you were beside me and I think nothing happened

between us.

“Aloha, darling.”

You downed one bottle of vodka

as soon as your sticky, sleek, sweet hands

removed themselves off me

and you tried to kiss me

but I wasn’t drunk yet so I pushed you away.

“Aloha, darling.”

You tried to kiss me again and again and again

but I kept shoving you off, you bastard

so you kissed her instead.

“Aloha, darling.”

You were quite drunk by midnight

and you called up your best friend

telling her you loved her and you let me

hold your hand and stroke

your back lovingly, tenderly, painfully

but she had a girlfriend

yet you still loved her and you cried

because she didn’t love you

and you tried to kiss me again

but I wouldn’t let you

so you kissed another girl instead.

“Aloha, darling.”

We went back home in eerie silence

not as awkward as it should be

but your hands found comfort

on my back, my waist, my hands

and you tried to walk straight even if

you were seeing two of me,

two of me that you still haven’t and can’t kiss.

“Aloha, darling.”

We walked into my room and you instantly

lay in bed and fell asleep

so I left you there and took a shower,

a vain attempt to wash the grubby trails

your hands left on me.

I expected you to be gone when I came back

but you were still in bed, snoring peacefully

so I lay next to you and watched you sleep

until I realized what a mess you’ve made of me.

“Aloha, darling.”

Palpitations (staying awake; maybe it’s the coffee or most probably, you)

I sigh as I draw the antique coffee mug to my lips, lipstick staining its rims as the taste of freshly brewed coffee fills my mouth.

You beam at me and continue to talk about your “state of the art” coffee maker that you bought online. I nod my head because you tell this story every time you make me coffee.

Which is every Saturday.

You watch me intently as I react to your gourmet coffee and you continue telling me how the coffee maker makes only one cup of coffee at a time so that guarantees its quality. I nod again because I don’t doubt what you say, I see you prepare the coffee in front of me. Every Saturday.

We go for small talk: school, work, the weather, and how it’s getting cold outside so we settle on your couch and I take occasional sips from my mug. Our conversations are safe and I don’t rest my head on your shoulder because my heart is beating fast.

I never got to tell you that I get extreme heart palpitations whenever I drink coffee but I still drink the coffee you give me every week, anyway. I don’t know why, I just do. I didn’t want to put you down because you seemed very happy making the cup of coffee every Saturday. So I bear the feeling of my heart hammering wildly against my chest, like it was trying to jump out of my body and protest to you and your love of coffee.

By midnight, I’m back in my flat, my heart is still drumming against my rib cage and sleep is impossible.

So I toss and turn and make creases on my smoothened blankets. I toss and turn for hours, not knowing what to do and just laying awake. I get frustrated because I’m like this every Saturday night: sleep-deprived and tired from feeling my heart beat.

I lay awake until I see the sun kissing the horizon and morning comes, I have not had a wink of sleep. My heart is still beating fast but maybe it’s not the coffee, maybe it’s you.


I could see constellations

in the light in your eyes.

I can catch falling stars –

no, comets

with my small calloused hands,

with a brush of my thumb,

my thimbled thumb,

I could contain the energy of

the last moments of a supernova,

the last flickers of life before darkness


I could dance with a thousand

dancing galaxies

with the light in your eyes,

traverse light years and lifetimes

within a second in your sight,

name those nameless planets and stars

that have not known you

but you have known with your hungry gaze

at night.

In the end, when I behold your light,

I know that I am starry-eyed.

Robot Lover

Robot lover,

let me put oil on your limbs.

Let me unscrew you

and then screw you

back together,

back to better,

back to human.

Robot lover,

let me show you

how to make your

heart beat

like this.


2 thoughts on “Zephyranthe

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