if love at first sight truly exists, mine would be the southern lights. One fine night in Ålesund, 1996, I caught my stepfather Dainin Kanav fall asleep to a video he played on repeat, which was recorded back then when he was journeying solo to the Falkland Islands. It was all magenta, the colour of my childhood princess, Sonja the baby doll. Broad horizons, infinite vacancy, wintry tarn, coalesced with that dancing Titania of nature’s. No other sound but fleeting nothingness clasping black pinewoods. I, then, sat next to the sleeping Kanav watching fifty-four seconds of what turned out to be my lifetime dream, learning for the first time that solitude was bliss.

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Fireflies between your fingers, flaring, twisting twilight—I am caught in moonlust; eerie lull over my collar, I’m all conquered by the absence of the day.

My syllables are such disarray, that I translate into songs to preserve the thought of you—that sickens me last night, tonight, and every night after. I spell your name backwards. There’s teardrop from below. My Sun descends eastward.

Dear Carrie, said Lowell,

There was a history before us, with tales never before told, pieces never before seen. We’d senesce and eventually perish, with our ideas be petrified, and our preexistence be either forgotten or unfortunately celebrated. But together—you and I—we’d perpetually coexist.

Dear Lowell, Carrie said,

Here I am, unbounded and infinite. Untangled and invincible.

Here I enliven,

digesting diction, breathing brainchild, nurturing notions.

To write or to writhe.


Beau Monde

Remember when I told you some stories about those picturesque auroras then I got so excited that my eyeballs were like about to jump out of its lids?

Or when we were busy dreaming a venturesome trip to Alaska that you never missed seeing that curve between my cheeks all conversation long?

Or the moment when I showed you those hot air balloons parades that I spoke in loud high note voice all along which you could not survive any more second?

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Hello; to Neil

I passed few minutes of deep wondering by standing quietly in front of your porch. Half of my brave self wanted me to take several steps to reach your front door and later may deliver some hi-how-are-yous with awkward self-excitement, while you would seem to be predictably surprised by my valor greetings. Another half of me was temporarily winning, because I just kept staring at your mini beautiful fishpond, admiring how pretty your tropical park is and secretly adoring how you always did nearly everything perfectly.

Continue reading “Hello; to Neil”