Remember the days?
The dizzy daze from riding the spiraling comets
into outer
space bar,
space bar,
space bar.
I type,
you write.
We journal
our hiccups and dry spells
and what rhymes with write?
Let’s remember the songs,
remember the night
that tasted like that red
we drank in downtown light.
You know,…
the one in the fun-shaped round bottle.

How long has it been?
Since the time we got kicked out of that concert, right?
Yes, that one.
You remember because it was the worst night
for us.
I still go to that venue…I’m actually on my way there right now
to see our favorite band.
We’ve seen them together a few times
and I had my fingers crossed
we’d see each other
You don’t live here anymore.

I heard a song the other day that you would love.
I wish I could talk
and poetry
with you
since it’s a truly magical era
for new sounds
and becoming who we are supposed to be.
You could probably edit this for me and
add in some mythological creature or
Latin word
I’ve never known.

It’s weird to think we are dreaming and
at the same time in different cities.
We don’t even talk anymore,
but if we did,
I would say something like:
“You should really come to this concert tonight!!!!! It would be like old times. Will dance for the both of us.”

I didn’t send you anything,
But sure enough,
you were there
saying something like:
“SIM, I knew you’d be here tonight.”

-wait ’till you see what I wrote on the way up here // from sometime in NOV.


I’ve got so many things to say and I always feel like I’m running out of time.

I’ve realized that some people don’t have a sense of urgency; they just float. These floaters are all around me- some of them are my closest friends. I don’t know if they are concerned about me when I’m running amok, but I believe the truest version of myself is lightly coated in chaos. It’s a bit contradicting, because when I’m not hyped up on caffeine and trying to make sense of every little thing, I can be a bit lazy. Luckily, that same laziness that I find myself stuck in from time-to-time is my fuel to stay up until I make something: something that makes me proud of myself.

Today, my mom said I’ve gotten lazy.

But does she not realize that I am awake until 4am, creating (yet) another literary world that no one other than myself may ever see?

I’ve got so many things to say and I always feel like I’m running out of time.


we decide what we’ll do
and who we’ll do it with,
listen as I tell you:
I’ve always wanted you.

I’d wear all your blame to
taste your name

I’d bear all your shame
to feel the same


I’m a long way from the ocean.
For salty air,
I renounce my despair
and end up among the waves.
I can’t whisk away
every time I have day.
Some days, I’m alone,
even though you promised I would
never be.

-how do I stand beside you when you’re always at the ocean?


I have the heart of a musician but cannot stay in key to save my life. For years, I was distraught knowing there is a passion that I cannot fulfill, but then I met you. I have the heart of a musician; I hope he doesn’t want it back.

-the right key


He says that I have been making so many metaphors that I am starting to look like one.
I fall in love with those words, before asking for an example.
“Which metaphor am I becoming?”
And to my dismay, he can’t think of a single example.
It seems I’m always intrigued by the ones that say the right things,
but I’m also a sucker for things in writing:
the details.
Right now I am sitting in my car and wondering to myself:
Do I want someone who thinks of me as art
Do I want someone who makes me into art?

-the specifics