this is a ritual, religious or no:

one is the turning of the house key–  no, it is the fumble prior in locating–    no, it is the dragged steps across hallways.       it is the silence of mercy.

two is your shadow beckoning and the melting into bedsheets. half is half-lit phone screens illuminating. three-quarters is yours alone.  the radio doesn’t know.

three: the narrative is missing. this one is specific. i’m in love with you alone but i’m talking about me and the radio still doesn’t know. in montage or flash cards through seventeenth autumn and this tropical cocktail, my ash-island, my haze-bridge between worlds when you cut through mountains. equatorial arctic portable refrigerator i paid $14 for. there are highlands and crossroads between your creases and a five hour bus ride to your heart.

four– i’ve known forever, darling. no bats here but horn-bills and other primary hued beaked beauties. when i laid on the base of that 8th floor campsite the little square on the wall whispered me home. i stood alone on a dancefloor a while ago. illegal(but everybody was so-). under canopies of teen revelry and blunt magazine my best friend told me nobody does this. but you’re my own and still shining, through cenang the creaky bunk beds to lights pulsating on buildings i can’t reach. from darks to green and crystals. sparkling. this is not religious but it may as well be.

five, is never ending.

four thousand and–

here is a song, drenched in sweet sunshine
your  footsteps
in our borders
that overlooks three, four, and it shows
and it beeps. in every gocard tap it hits
in every junction
all the soft bougainvilleas combed
and your mother’s natural rock garden
bed walls. and your sister the rose
when we’re literal
with autumn reserved for lovers
and leaving all our friends
tell me we don’t need them
we can build homes with coopers pale
emptied and ash out the windowsill.
you can kiss my eyelids and i can feel
not small again. lack of p-plates
with just feet conquering hills.
so it’s my hair that’s longer now
we don’t have to
pick up secondhand ikea
from the streets of clayfield, anymore
and know i love you from the courtyard
of the church to the hospital’s, your
card won’t work.
i wish we had a copy of daytripper each
and maybe both on our thighs, but it’s
okay. it’s fine

sabat.

jadi, masih bisa kan? seperti
gini? seperti yang aku
masih
mau
dan
all that i’ve ever planned
when i click the refresh button
and redefine
dan kamu ngomong
kata tiga like you
understand
/
so our footsteps fill the empty
walls and they’re lightened
and the tv plays
mistranslated guidings
the kuda for the
young
and wait to resurrect the mercury
for it is dormant
right now.

/
hijau hijau and
what is it now
kalo kamu masih bisa ngerti
you no longer speak

please be okay or not okay i’ll still love you the same 

gmt +8 +10 and this love 
is rotation by clockhands
between ampersandsso
are the windows still cracked open where you are
to let the breeze in;
are there still creaky floorboards and lucy the
heavy treader,
and her byron boyfriend and summer cocktails
my vomit streaked across your glass panels from tequila
so is your house empty again, baby
thai basil and off seafood in woks
when did you last clean,
sleep in left-hand corner again
tell me you love me andrepeatrepeatrepeat


laillahaillalahmuhammadarasullulah

so when it’s
daybreak and fajr layers
through the cracks in the windows
and multiple gin and tonics
you say there is no one else
but him through benders
and all your being
what kind of kafir are you
sahadah when it’s early morning
convulsing into bedsheets and
drive me home because i
am in no state but stately enough
for your word
and you but no one else and he
and no one else
and no one else
and no one else
no one else

a love letter

to the tropics but you’re southbound
in Köppen starting A’s but you’re monsoon this is
dark blue. i see you
in every millimeter counted in rainfall
and mist wrapped hills like shawls
and suburban epiphytes
with the average annual 2000
range twenty-nine, twenty.
triple showers daily
eternal fight against humidity
when you’re long roads and curvature
with hands cradling cigarettes
ash on passenger seat and
the center console coffee cup;
disengage me.
this scent is called new beginnings and
leaving.