End of Tunnel

I cannot tell you the things I feel about
or how funny the joke was on the radio
or how I got lost and still found my way out of an unfamiliar place,

I cannot tell you the joy which to me the sunset brings
and the glimmer of each dotted star on a clear sky
and the breeze of the wind from the shoreline,

For I know
they won’t change a thing
whatever your mind thinks
or the way you feel,

But would you help me in this task?
Only this little favor of mine,
hoping it won’t take up too much of your time:

Hold on.
No matter how hard it is for you.
Do not lose your fingers, slipping one by one from gripping that single string of hope.

Hold on.
You may not see it now, or tomorrow, or the coming days,
but like a caterpillar in its cocoon, eventually a butterfly will come out,
there will come a time,
the end to all the sufferings, heartache and pain.

Hold on.
I’m reaching you my hand, you can hold it,
any way you want,
on your own terms, I won’t mind.

Just hold on.
with you I will stay,
trust me darling, i will
till we both see the light
at the end of the tunnel.



My hands held tight of the pen, afraid it might slip from trembling,
I saw no more than blurred scribbles on a sheet of paper
as the tears gather in the rim of my eyes, but they won’t fall, no—
not until this farewell I’m writing
reaches your heart,
and feel it change nothing of our fate
I once thought I’m capable of changing.

Strange Woman

I stand in front of a mirror
eyes skeptic,
darting from one angle
to the other of my reflection;

Am I the same, or
have I changed?

Finding evidence in the bruises,
or any hand prints,
or any marks
that may suggest
of the dimmed, heated night
though there was none…

Except from the pulsing pain,
I find oddly and sweet
swinging backwards and forwards
there and again;

At last,
a breath escaped from my lips,
I turned my back against it
now willing to leave,

But something gnaws,
unwordly thoughts,
perhaps remorse
or triumph all the same,
piercing from the eyes
of the person before I,

Was it truly me,
standing in front of a mirror,
or a strange woman entirely?


She cannot remember the days when angels would sing hallelujah,
echoing along the drift of clouds above,
or when it’s rather an endless rain ceasing the rise of daybreak;

She neither would count the weeks of how long it’s been since the tulips started blooming, for he helped her water it with such sweet wine,
or when she no longer finds herself walking on a paved road, but instead balancing on a tight rope suspended hundred feet up;

Because days and nights don’t matter,
time and numbers don’t either;

It all comes down to wonders, boiling under the distress of her mind, yearnings of her heart, longing of her soul—

It all comes down to faith, burning like a raging forest fire—

It all comes down to passion, and the inevitable anguish it entails,
that she finds her feet running towards to,
finally returning home, as if she’s lived the life of a gypsy,
wandering the unknown.


Tonight I will sleep with the thought
that the moon hung low,
swell enough to illuminate
the dimmed sidewalk
we were strolling through;
a busy street
of a sunday eve,
laughing as we lost track.
Strangers brush past us—
oblivious of the blossom
enveloped within
the cocoon of our entwined hands.

And for a single moment
you allowed me to drink in the moonlight—
with your eyes
sharing the same glow as I,
which was nothing I’d ever seen before;
nothing compared to what I had.

No Longer Found

No thing
lasts a hundred,
a million, gazillion,
years of future,

even the tallest
of mountains, and
the deepest of
oceans, and
lovers they thought
eternally bound,

all but crumbles
into sad
’til even that
can no longer
be found.