Our Second House by Kumiko Mae

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I miss our old house
her secrets
closets filled with old toys
clothes of another
generation.

I long for
her redness
floors stained by soiled feet
of the outdoor games
by curious hands
I do not know of anymore.

I miss the roof
how it melted under
my cold feet as
white linen hang dry
in the open
soaking the sun
while rats escape in the shadows.

I miss our old doors
never locked for each other
with walls that wouldn't keep
us apart, when the world is close to my ear--
wild when it's quiet
I miss the years of everything
salted like butter, easy shelves
and soft corners.
I miss the games that cheated
us of nothing more than what we can give
how the bed was always made
even when there's a blackout
and we fan each other as we sleep.

I miss the sound of a day stuck with
you all around me.
until I hear you crisply burnt
taking my favorite pillow away
leaving not even a feather.

- Kumiko Mae

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Undiscovered by Kumiko Mae

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The morning started with a chit-chatter coming from my window. It was raining, cold, late. There was a stale taste of yesterday hanging on my lips; which I instinctively licked, and confirmed as the dew marking my just-cleaned window, it was there, lost spirits named after wild games, and a burn that gave tar for souvenir. It tasted of confusion and honesty. People wanting people for temporary company, and then some, just watching.

Unlike most mornings, I blinked hesitantly, disbelieving the grey that permitted the bit of light into my room of shells. The sound of a new day forced itself into my sleeping ear, and I turned into a bundle of curses until the beat started humming, from afar first, then louder, more alive than loud, unforgotten and demanding attention, and I, suffering from the recluse barricaded by art, of my hand and soul, was dragged to a trance, sheets falling to place, feet on cold floor, hands flirting with air.

(to be continued)

The One with Mornings by Kumiko Mae

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This poem was inspired by the Dashboard Confessional song, Hands Down

The sky was begging to be remembered, sheets of bloody orange and a blue
such was waking with only
a whiff of your hair that has fallen
to marry my sheets.

I miss how you rustled in panic
when you wake up late, and I, later than my promises.

So was the finger-pointing, harsh and punctual
to the rising of your voice when your hair is wet and dripping
down your back, wetting your shoulders, but I, sit quiet and absorbing
your voice before you go
because all I do is wonder
where have your wings flown
how do you shed your light, then return
with graceful, sometimes ancient, kindness regained.

These mornings when we fight
the undiscovered half-lit realities from our heads remain
to be my best memories of you.
How raw you are
muscles warm from my embrace
then washed off by the sudden need to live, away from love
more often, apart from me.

Until the last alarm would set
you off to where you have to be
for needs that take you every time.
And you don't notice, but I always have
when you realize you're leaving, perhaps standing too far from where I sit waiting, you stop
sigh and put down the brush that you never did use to comb your hair
and look at me from the mirror
where I always looked at you to watch,
your back would turn, you'd be quiet and return,
an angel of lightness kissing my forehead, saying goodbye
to the shadows that we set aside together
or to me
for the time being
so you can live and marry the dreams in your head
in time for us to also marry our lives, someday when we can.