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[herpoignancy-blog]

Wip

[herpoignancy-blog]

6.17 11:09pm

Lights pulse and flicker.

Spilling into the dim lit concrete Between conversing feet;

Saturating into the cracks and crevices Of a city loved too rough;

Caressing gently her smoldering shoulder– Rivaling the works of pointillism.

[herpoignancy-blog]

6.16 Mother

Her lips purse every time I reach for the keys.

Flickering lights persist in the growing darkness. Glasses inch to a new degree of crookedness, Bones sink deeper into our loved up couch With every rise and fall.

She only yearns to keep me secluded In the silken crook of her elbow For a little while longer.

[herpoignancy-blog]

6.16 My mother’s english does not need to be fixed.

Half-toned idioms, Tongue-curled Zs. Pararhymed intonations, Fragmented silences.

Texture of the sound check before your first band performance; Reverberation of a solo garnished with misplaced breath marks; Bickering of dominating voices in your first attempt at kaeng khiao wan.

[herpoignancy-blog]

We do not talk about love in the open. Quiet glances in firelight and over warm dinners is as close as we get to affection. We learn how to weave our emotions into action, into silence, into solitude. The most they could ever give me is my own life, my own abilities to grow, my own safe to hold the love they’ve never spoken about but have always given out in generous portions. I do not recall a time I have come home hungry to have my tongue sit languid and dry or my stomach grapple with emptiness for too long. I am often left alone in the middle of the night but there is always tea, still hot, on the counter, patient like a parent waiting until their child sleeps before their worries can simmer. And when my heart flinches and falls out of place, when my skin slackens against my bones, too weary to glow, when the cold seeps into my blood and freezes rivers and drowns me underneath, I am never turned away. Open arms and cooing whispers and gentle combing of my hair, I am laid to rest until I am enough again. In this house, we are as cautious around love as teenagers who have not yet understood how to hold something so delicate. We do not know how to speak in a way that would make our pains disappear or our faces break into smiles, we do not command love the way many families can. But it is here, an invisible thread trailing our steps and encounters and exchanges, marking everything we do for all that we cannot say.

In my culture, we do not say I love you (via ink-trails)