I wonder what he tastes like… It may seem like a sexual statement to make, but every time I see him, I remember that my hands were made to hold more than just myself. More than just secrets and the lonely that I wrapped onto my fingertips, so much that I can’t seem to hold…

I grew up with poetry by my side. One of my earliest memories is that of when I was three or four, bouncing up and down on a bed in the corner of my grandparents’ cramped apartment, repeating after them as they taught me the lines of Tang Dynasty verses in Sichuanese. They passed onto…

Close Friends. Ok. Whatever. Aight. The close friends feature on Da ‘Gram (Instagram) oftenly trips me out (or in). Bambi legs with sneakers, shuffling in its stance. I’m laced with my understanding of closeness that feels familiar, you know me cuz I know you. Makes it easier to share what I hold precious and as well, a…

Dear reader, If you are reading this, you’re either a poet or someone who appreciates and enjoys reading poetry. Or maybe you’re not a big poetry fan but you want to be. Or maybe you have a love-hate relationship with poetry. And to be honest, I don’t blame you. Whatever your relationship with poetry is,…

“sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres, tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía, tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.” <that this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your…