First Love

Sometimes I’m smothered by the ache of missing you
And I love you so much I weaken, bones become brittle,
My bed, the white sheets, become a wide ocean
In which I’m drowned, again and again, by the same vengeful tide
My head, submerged, as if pressed by a mighty hand
That only lets go every five seconds or so
Long enough for me to gasp, and swallow more salt

They once shared one language, our bodies
Our limbs knew to be firm, our calves and shins like magnets,
Entwined like strong ropes, or constellations
These arms that once held you
That once knew how to fold to fit your frame, harness you like lassos,
Are now but twigs, scattered by the seaside

Our breasts once knew the weight of each other,
Like colliding mountains
My mouth, which once suckled your plump fruit
And nourished from the nectar of your tongue,
The bitter liquor of your substance,
Is now but a cavern, from where my whimpers echo,
My chest, a hammering board

And these hands that pulled your hair, clutched your nape

This skin still smudged by the resin of your flesh
My fingers, once colonizers of all your caves, your rivers
Now rule no empire

A Graduate's Wisdom

The romantic life of a starving artist and budding writer:

To be a budding writer requires passion, which means telling people that you write on your free time, which also means facing the question: “so why do you write… just because?” with dignity.

To be a starving artist means to waitress, and still be able to say “the world needs more art. Art will save us,” and try to believe it.

To be a budding writer means to get horridly drunk, and wake up the next morning with the conviction that it was all for the sake of experience.

To be a starving artist means to watch all the movies on Netflix, with the firm believe that it was meant for inspiration.

To be a budding writer means to carry a journal with you everywhere, and have it full of grocery lists.

To be a budding writer means to have a constant rush of ideas… sometimes, and to sit before the computer for two hours, having written only two words.
To be a starving artist means going to an empty bar to write for thirty minutes, before you get too tipsy to focus.

To be a budding writer means to dedicate an hour daily to nothing but writing… and cigarette breaks, and trips to the bathroom, and occasional texting.

To be a budding writer means to wear glasses before writing, even if you have no problems with farsightedness.

To be a starving artist means spending three hours in a bookstore, and coming out empty handed.

To be a budding writer means to tap hard at the keys to see if the sound stimulates thought, or to have your roommates believe that you’re working hard.

To be a starving artist means to practice what you preach, even if you don’t know what the practice entails.

To be a budding writer means to wake up one morning, spend an hour and a half working on a good paragraph, and smile.
To be a budding writer means having a collection of journals that embarrass you, yet still loving them like a mother. 

To be a starving artist means constantly reading about other young successful artists in history, and then about the old ones.

To be a budding writer means feeling complete euphoria after the piece is done.

To be a budding writer means reading your piece over and over again, and liking it more each time.

To be a budding writer means reading your piece over and over and over again, and disliking it more each time.

To be a budding writer means starting again, and again, and again for the rest of your life.

There's nothing like the pleasure of having a glass of brandy and a cigarette after a stressful shift. And other simple and natural pleasures, such as watching a squirrel run on a power line, or watching it eat nuts from the leaf of a late summer tree. Or listening to the sound of an airplane, or that of the passing cars on a setting afternoon. It is then that I know that life, in essence, remains the same. That shit is still ok.