Back in bed in the night and on the rushed Sunday after, I replay the whole evening on loop—the restless rickshaw ride, the unnerving struggle to find the right metro platform, the merciless two-minute wait for the train, the heedless texting to make the time bolt faster, the harrowing but sustaining ad-riven Spotify to cudgelContinue reading “(be)so(r)tted”
Author Archives: adjectiveoverobjective
momentary mementos?
a weathered wallet and a zapped zipper packing a paling pickle of a post-it from a past now part plastic words on its paper, tiny tethers in ink cursive and cruel each one of them a stitch to a moment, a stitch to the moment the one that stretched too thin while it did bloomingContinue reading “momentary mementos?”
between the second and the third day of the year
sweeter than the coffee we sipped all night long that seaspoon of salt.
route 99, CP
discovered yesterday, the cinder in this smokehouse still catches flame.
c’est la vie
The first time I noticed you, nothing felt sunnier about it all than your teeth. A smoker’s smile. You pulled your bike over and yanked your helmet off, revealing a fallen flag of hair crumpled with sweat. I didn’t look directly in your eyes. Until followed a hey, a particularly insistent signpost to the yetContinue reading “c’est la vie”
500 days of bummer
I really like your room. He says, while placing the skinny monitor on G’s desk. Must be the lighting. It really does everything. Just the right mix of yellow and white. I shift the cigarette between my fingers. It’s just a butt now. He rather attributes the fascination to the chalkboard and the window aloeContinue reading “500 days of bummer”
chief thrills
In the morning I wake up with the stench of mangled cabbages rising up the back of my throat and a nicotine-sullied breath and a tousled head rested obliquely upon his spindly chest and he is asleep on his back quiet like an untouched doorknob. I feel queasy. Like my stomach is staging some mutinyContinue reading “chief thrills”
relics from a romance
2:15 AM. I am thinning out a brick of butter into a pan, waiting for you to intervene and scoop out another cube. Only that you are in my inbox slipping me bad puns and dad jokes. I wonder if what we share also began like this. Some runny pancake batter, given carte blanche overContinue reading “relics from a romance”
