My First Ballet: Love Poem: A Suicidal Note

I love you

I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you

I love you

I love

You

I

l

o

v

e

y

o

u

Betrayal

.

Aging knocks around the imbalance of my living room—

disassociation, a used couch, a worn-out blanket,

static on an old TV, a couple of paintings,

repeated defeats, lack of the whole thing.

Love is the last drop of wine remained in that dirty cup;

Still more, you make me weep.

On a Saturday morning,

Or a Tuesday’s or a Monday’s,

doesn’t matter! doesn’t matter!

Weeping hurts; it pains the whole process. Not that

I am weak or strong, not that you have

a permanent tattoo on your psychological self.

The outings, where can we meet? At the

front porch? On the swing? Near the

lovely lake? Your choice. I would listen.

But again, outings are not

outings without a damage.

Outings are merely where we nibble love and talk

nonsense, and pine for Tibet and Kyoto and Irrawaddy.

Senescence knocks me dead. You wither

like a summer flower, so does the last

song we sang together.

Your voice echoes:" Plants teach us how to live

….O Plants teach us how to live!"

disposable good sense of yours

has told me so.

-->

Alas,

I get mutated inside out. Alone

in my living room. Just next,

next to that old,

static TV of

yours.

“4:14 am”

At the dawn, the night

meets yet another

soaring soul

I long for Rangoon

there lies a thousand birds which

can take me places—

bridges of the past.

.

.

.

.