5a.m. Thoughts

At five A.M. I think some thoughts:
why am I awake?
should I go back to sleep?
oh! an itch!

That's better.

Five A.M., before even sunrise, I consider.
Life-important questions:
who am I?
why are we here?
are humans really all that smart?

We're killing our planet.

Think to myself at five A.M.
what's the name of that song again?
who even sings it?
why do we care so much about celebrities?

Roll over.

Five A.M.'s gone but still I am thinking:
why five A.M. every day?
what made me wake up this time?
is there a ghost in here?

Hello, ghost.

Self Challenge: A Semi-fictional Biography of my friend Kristine

Kristine is a human who identifies as a female. She prefers the feminine pronoun. Kristine was born in Canada to parents [insert names here] originating in the Philippines on a stormy September twenty-some years ago. An intelligent, bubbly, and well-read individual, Kristine is currently studying English at UofT and working part-time, all while managing to write majestically. Beautiful in both body and brains, Kristine's writing career is taking off -- she's scarcely caught without a pen in hand -- you'll be swept away to the whirlwind worlds that inhabit her fascinating consciousness.

If buses knew

The bus pulls into its bay as she runs to catch it. She nods to the driver as she boards and takes the seat immediately behind him. They sit idling a moment, awaiting more passengers, but none join her. The solitary woman and the driver leave the bus bay, turn onto familiar roads. She smiles at him in the mirror and he catches her eye. The first few stops have no passengers and gradually, the woman gathers her courage. She makes small talk with the driver. Weather, sports, how long he's been driving. Simple things. At the next stop, the bus turns. Confusion crosses the previously calm visage of the woman. She looks again to the mirror and the driver smiles. He tells her he is lonely, and she sympathizes, not knowing how else to respond. He stops the bus, suggests sex, never moving from his place behind the wheel. She regards him in the mirror a moment, two, then another passes. She considers the offer. He is handsome enough, she supposes, and it has been a while. Then she recognizes her advantage. "A hundred fifty," she says demurely, still eyeing him in the mirror. He nods, a shy smile passing as he rises from his seat. He walks the aisle to where she stands and takes her gently into his arms. He kisses her tentatively at first, as if he expects she'll change her mind. Instead, she pushes him forward, kissing aggressively, unbuttoning his shirt. They use the bench seat to the side, the metal creaking beneath them as they move together. They moan. One at a time, then in unison. He shudders and slips away. The woman sits still, regarding him as he redresses himself. A soft, tin-like ringing begins. The man moves back to his seat, answering his telephone. The woman dresses herself slowly, catching his eye in the mirror from time to time. He finishes with the phone. "Who was that?" she asks, curiosity outweighing civility.  "My wife," he replies. She notices this is the first time he has spoken. His voice is gruff, manly, smooth like jazz. She nods, walks to the front of the bus, leans towards him in his seat and kisses him. He hands her five twenty dollar bills and five tens, gropes her breast, and kisses her forehead. She moves back to her seat. The one immediately behind his. The bus starts, she's almost home.

An Ode to French Fries

O! The way you glisten
in the glint of light
with oil and salt.

It does make my mouth water,
my heart beat faster,
my stomach churn in wanting.
For your beauty does know no match,
the way you compliment my palate is divine.

O! Fried potatoes,
your salty delicate flavour undoes me
in a way that no other can,
I crave you more deeply
than any other.
For without you I am not complete,
you are my other half.

Confusion

Empty. Open. Alone.

These are the thoughts that enter DJ's mind when she thinks of his visit. She is left with more questions than she'd had beforehand. Things feel more complicated now, but as to why, she is uncertain. DJ lifts her cup of tea and burns her top lip. She glares at the cloudy liquid in the cup and blows warm air across its surface. She puts the cup down and stands. She walks into her bathroom, looks at the sink, the floor, the toilet. She leaves. She can still smell him on her skin. Strong and bold, the scent of his work lingers though she's since changed her clothes. DJ longs to hold him, to feel completed by his arms, but she isn't sure that hope is real; doesn't know that it could happen. She walks into the kitchen, sees what is left of their dinner still on the counter, turns and walks back to her original seat at the table. Taking her phone into her hands, DJ calls him. Screaming, she tells him to make up his mind. She hangs up. Seconds later, she dials again. Voicemail. "I'm sorry. I'm crazy. I'm sorry." She hangs up. Shaking, DJ stands again, picks up her book from the table by the door, moves into the bedroom. In bed, DJ tries to read but finds she cannot. She begins to cry. She doesn't understand why yet, but she will.

Toolbox

I want so badly
to take a tool from the box,
press it against my skin,
and release the tension
of a thousand
internal wounds
that bleed into my soul,
press darkness against my heart,
and fill my lungs with the
mucus that is
anxiety.
unwanted.
lonely.
self-hatred.
and a host of other emotion-feelings
that engulf my being

Incomplete vows

I want to share the best parts of my life with you.
Have every 'best memory' shared --
Ours.
I want my life to mingle with yours. No tearing them apart.
Our one life, complete and whole --
An entity in itself.
Too close for comfort. Or is it?
My memories long for you; incomplete without you.

-- A lapse --

I want to share my life with you, give you everything I've got.
The best and worst of me's for you,
With you,
In you.
And me as well.

I want each fond memory to start with You and each bad one to end with Your presence.
Make memories with me.
Grow and cherish and love with me.
Form new life with me.
Become me;
and let me become you.
A life not shared is a life insignificant;
Share yours with me and mine with you.

Pick up my pieces when I fall apart and I promise to pick up yours.
I'll put them together --
better than before, and seal them with all the love of my heart.

I want each fond memory to start with You and each bad one to end with Your presence.
Make memories with me.
Grow and cherish and love with me.
Form new life with me.
Become me;
and let me become you.
A life not shared is a life insignificant;
Share yours with me and mine with you.
Love me,
and be loved.
Promise me my darling