Hurt

The first time we fought, you and I,
I had promised you breakfast at Sharma's
And you'd promised to sing to me,
But I woke up at noon hungover and you 
Wouldn't grant me drunken immunity,
And I accused you of irrationality
But you accused me of betrayal,
And my crime was greater, indisputably,
And for half a day afterwards,
You held my heart in your hands
And squeezed it so I couldn't breathe,
And now that you've at last let go,
It hurts that never again will I
Hurt because you fought with me.

...

For a few white moments this afternoon
on a bench sweating rain

palms cupped around hot styrofoam
brown liquid burnt brown hair on tongue
steam joined hands with smoke
ash dissolved into asphalt

a vein thawed
an artery melted

and for a few light moments
I was whole
again.

Jasmines

Most plants last a week or two

on my once-barren windowsill,

until I neglect to water them --

(boredom / apathy, who can tell? 

or the fact that they aren't 

jasmines) -- but these

jasmines have survived months and I

have kept nigh light and rain

(on impulse / instinct, or from need? --

I don't know which).

Fifteen months, and finally

light is less wanton with its ministrations --

(less wanton / less generous, 

what's the difference?) -- 

on a fortunate day, a ray or two 

might leak down the sky's edges

into my jasmines' 

open palms,

slowly (surely) dying.

I'll air the curtains
and fluff the pillows tomorrow,
and, perhaps, allow

sweat (and blood?)
to unclog the pores
of my limbs and lungs
and wash away 

the perfumes of

faint, lingering jasmines.