Our fares were meant for different ways.
I would eventually go to the jeep terminal
and he somewhere I wouldn’t know
because I’d be busy lining up
for my ticket.

We were not friends.
Not relatives. Not schoolmates or whatnot.
We just met in a jeep ride. No.
Actually not We
but our eyes.
Our eyes met and we were sure
we were significant.
We were aware of each other’s presence
as travelers
seating among many other travelers
who knew exactly where they were going.
We were conversely lost
and I doubted
(we both doubted)
that maps would point us
to the same direction.
We sat there
for an hour,
both the longest
and the shortest sixty minutes
one would spend
with a stranger–
farther than any acquaintance
yet closer than any friend
who would lend you a shoulder
when you were too tired and sleepy.
The offer wasn’t loud.
In fact it was silent enough
that sincerity told one had been made.
Introductions were skipped.
Not a single question was asked
but there were lots of answers.
To prayers to a star.
The same star that did not grant my wish:
We reached our stop.
I was up for my last jeep home
but wasn’t ready for my last glance at him.
What were the chances of that?
were the chances
of meeting
for the first time
someone who you instantly did not want to lose?
How hard would it be
to say goodbye
when a hello had not been said?

My jeep started to move…

Darn Numbers

What are they?
Reminders of quantity?
of ratings?
of scales?
Definitions of you?
of your presence?
of your absence?
Are they mirrors,
or merely glasses?
Darn numbers,
they keep on policing measurements
as if everything is all
about shapes and sizes
rather than breadths and depths,
about zeroes and tens
rather than emptiness and abundance.
Darn numbers,
they keep on noticing starts and ends
but never the headway.
If darn numbers rate you high,
does it mean you totally rock?
If low, you suck?
Does shorter mean less and longer mean more?
Does bigger mean greater and smaller mean sore?
Come on.
Do you compute?

Something hangs on my wall and annoys me

Something hangs on my wall
and annoys me
with its ‘ticks’
and ‘tocks’
as if saying
I have music more beautiful
than your favorite songs
so just listen to me.

It sticks there
all day, all night
with its irritating warnings
of time lost
every second,
every parcel of each second.

I take the chance
to ask it
if it ever gets tired of
measuring a thing too abstract,
too imperceptible,
and all it answers
‘tick tock’
For god’s sake,
yes or no?

I wonder
if someone ever finds happiness
in seeing all time gone
only to see that the same hands
point at the same numbers
indicating the same time
all the while
till you realize nothing has really been lost.
Or everything has been lost
at the very midnight
it starts ticking.

I take the chance
to ask it,
Do clocks count time?
Or do they even know they show it?

Haven’t I?

Untitled (2)I was told you were powerful.
That you could change things.
And people.
That you were practically
I had believed them.
Yet why now
Do I feel such a silly kid
Who lost hopes as she lost her candy?
That was ordinary.
The candy.


You are not as powerful as they thought you were
Or if I am mistaken,
Maybe I haven’t really met you yet.