“Of all sweet passions Shame is the loveliest.”


the title for this poem comes from a poem by Lord Alfred Douglas of the same name.




From the trees
I gather a handful of plums.
Today, you stare and point towards
the ripest bunch.
There is tart from last Friday.
You feast on it a little and then on
the sun I still have left to

On other midnights
when the light runs out
I sit down, stealing
from the stars.

and they let me.

Artwork by @xuanlocxuan



Standing in the last aisle at the store, I am tempted to pick some chocolates and maybe even a drink. I forgot to bring my groceries list with me and now I’m unsure about the kind of cereal my mother likes and if i am already on last roll of toilet paper.
This is new to me. Like flying for the first time, I am still reading the pamphlet that flights have on every seat with instructions on how to fasten the belt and sit upright.
I know you’d disapprove of me getting the ready made cold coffee at the store but I get it anyway. If you could see me now, you’d turn, look at me in my eyes, and probably in jest, laugh.
There are two people behind me in the line. A fairly old woman playing with her grandchild, and another man, with frisky curly hair, and glasses bigger than his head. He is unaware of the long line, and I am tempted to ask him to turn the music down.
But I realize that I’ve been staring too long, and that’s probably not okay.
I am forgetting you on my own pace. Presently, here, at the door of the supermarket, wondering if the man behind me could replace you. And if it would make any difference at all.
On other similar days, with time, I unlearn, sometimes while plucking flowers, orchids of roses, I dare to smell you in them again.




Can you see?
The rain imitates you.
Forces me to hold my breath
and anticipate this touch.

I am akin to
wild things
like rain on a hot summer day.

I can stand in the balcony for hours
Let the rain wet my hair
and slide down slowly
through my loosely hanging shirt.

Like your hands tracing their way
on my skin.
Rain feels familiar today.
As if I could collect you. All of you
in my palm.

Look above.
Even the clouds are jealous.


Ivory tears.


Do not shed tears here
in my garden.
these flowers have known
better lovers
than I.

At least the sun is a keen visitor.
Present almost every day
Like a regular customer
at a kind brothel
and these flowers,
the sun’s favorites.

Come embrace me one night
And show me everything that you want to do to me.
And maybe I could too indulge in the
sexual conversations
on hot summer days.

For how long
do I have to be jealous
of my own flowers?


This is after reading a lot from the poetry collection of Allen Ginsberg. Where the most of it emerges from his strong desires for sexual intercourse with other men. These above pictures of him and Peter Orlovsky, are strange in the same way love is. Where not all of it comes at once. But slowly. In midnight thoughts. Of your lover entering you, slowly, and of all the pleasure it gave you. You wake up and Blush. Because what else can you do. Who are you going to tell this to anyway?


Winter was harsh last year. The kind that makes your lips turn white and forget what your lover tastes like.
I have come to accept you leaving, as changing seasons. And today, on the first day of summer all my plants have bloomed again. But that does not mean I have forgotten last winter.
That does not mean I have forgotten writing to you, and then hiding them back somewhere in old notebooks. It’s summer now, but every time I find anything I wrote to you, it all flashes back.
The same nostalgia that I try and avoid every day. In plaid shirts, and when I occasionally win a game on quizup, (only you were much better at quizzes). And especially on days when a mutual friend shares my poetry and I know you must have come across it too. I can only imagine what you would think.
It’s funny because it’s like having Alzheimer’s in reverse. It’s funny, because it’s summer now, but I know I’m not allowed to forget about last winter.