Sun in your face and mine
and the trees behind.

We sit
and we feel the breeze
greet us many times.

The swings and the slide
lie vacant to our eyes.
The sand,
warm to the touch
is peacefully settled
while the birds flutter,
restless in the light.

The bench,
Our
bench
waits for us.
Like the moon
waits for a gaze.

We are alone.

It is a treasure,
for time is momentarily
slow
and the world is ours to behold.

-HC

The saxophone begs

and hypnotizes.

It’s deliberate,

doesn’t waver,

and traces

your skin

with water.

It’s cunning

and seizes

your body

slowly.

You’re gone.

On the floor,

you crave

for more.

It teases you

as you try

to savour

it.

-HC

I think I know where I’m going.

And sometimes I don’t.

Do I need to know?

Will it help me

if I know where I am going?

If it’s a long one

or a short journey?

Does the palm really reveal such ordeals?

I tried looking,

but I’m no reader.

Does it lie?

Do they lie?

How do they know

they know?

-HC

I sit alone on my throne.

The birds don’t sing for me.

They sit outside,

away from sight.

Where else would they be?

The floor creaks when I walk by the empty rooms.

Here, only dust flies

when I make the slightest move.

And time, I guess.

It sits with me while I stare blankly ahead.

A confession (I confess): I’m no poet.

I don’t dream with colours.

I don’t know how to tell time.

And red isn’t easy on the eyes.

-HC

I live not in the present tense,

but I tend to think I do.

I die everyday when the sun goes down,

and awake even bitter to the sounds.

Control I can’t

Forget I can’t

I’m stuck

for I don’t know how to see.

I don’t know where to commit,

how,

and why I should.

I’m breathing

but it’s coming out a sham.

-HC

He says,

Girl get me my dinner.

He says,

Girl cut your hair.

He says,

Girl you can’t wear that.

He says,

Girl you’re out of line.

He says,

Girl you better listen.

He says,

Girl you’re no woman yet.

You can’t make decisions.

-HC

Time to freeze and time to hold.

The clock hangs high and chimes too loud.

To want and want is a slow disease.

It eats

and grows

and clouds my soul.

Inside,

I fear

myself and the truth.

I fear I’ll lose what makes you stay.

I want—

all I do is want and want.

To show you,

to tell you:

my clock is locked with yours.

-HC

I tie myself to you.

Your wounds,

your dreams,

your words

pour like batter

onto me.

The shape is lost,

we left it at the park.

We’re inadequate.

We’re impossible,

they whisper.

We’re optimistic.

I like the picture we paint.

You draw with your eyes.

They touch my lips

when we say goodbye.

-HC

When fear takes over,

it wins.

I lie

to fool

myself.

That’s how I bend.

Oh, to mend—

the question is how.

-HC

I sit on my chair and drop my head back. I look up at the ceiling because what else can I look at?

I hear the birds— they’re insistent with their indistinguishable song.

I look at myself and I wonder what’s wrong. I look in different directions, different angles, and outside the same window. The view doesn’t change.

The blue, purple, pink, and orange look beautiful. I guess I’d like to see them closer up for a change.