From An Old Journal

I don’t believe in love,
the four letters stay still in my mind,
no dancing.
no singing.
no grand staircase leading to a dream.
Love is a cold wind on your back
as the fire burns your eyes,
Love is a tear swallowed by the ocean.
love is the silence after a yell,
the gap between stars and death,
the same phenomenon disguised by poetry.
Love is walking alone with the moon,
wondering if the car behind you
will be the last thing you see.
Love is an impossible idea,
but the most important one.

Between Two

I am torn between two continents,
two cultures,
two upbringings,
two histories,
two currencies,
two ways to make a sandwich,
yet in my division,
I also stand
apart from both.
Neither is home,
neither is a stranger,
neither give me confidence
in who I am.
Is there a third,
I am yet to find,
or will I always be
hovering between worlds,
a ghost of identity.