lost (in translation) We dream of musty horse carriage goodbyes of the princes (but cover our ears so we never hear the departure). But still, you make footprints on my atlas as you walk in circles between lost bookshelves, familiar bedcovers and cross the stage over weeks and years, in detour over and over again. But the whisper of dreams never ends. So I'll etch the ghost of fluttering farewells in heartscript which you left in my lips' acquaintance, for you to uncode, unravel and speak (for) me till the day we meet again.

a case of (pointless) attestation Your name is pretentious, you tell me one day, the edges of each letter weave superfluously around my tongue, writing itself out with disconcerting tranquility in my spiteful handwriting, looking too sensible to pass off as a scribble on my lazy dog-eared lecture notes, creeping between fading blue lines of exercise books from cover to cover with alarming discretion (and finally into the spine of my diary). And it, you interject suddenly, a hushed summer later, is excessively rhythmic and melodious in articulation, reverberating in one's voice box obnoxiously seconds, minutes after you're gone (but taking days and years in mine). But what antagonizes me the most, you whisper (a #lifetime) later, is how it leaves me trailing familiar ghosts of discordant alphabets on my bedcovers as the 4 a.m. majorelle blue silence blankets me and I drift off with these trivial letters on my tongue, the composition of your name woven in the air around me like a sonnet and you in my head.