This is all there is;
the closet will always be full of blacks, greys, and some navy
with a hint of deep purple here and there.
It will never be
bright and girly, beautiful in the most commercial sense of the word.
No, it just is what it is,
it’s inconsequential but also capable of things not known to it,
at least not yet.

I could never decide if clothes made the person
or a person made the clothes
or if the clothes and the person were too intertwined to want to be differentiated at all.
I don’t know, but even if I keep looking
all I see are drab monochromes
that layer and hide and deceive the naked eye.

When I hide inside them, I am some awkwardly slow turtle from a fable–
the kind that hides whenever something too difficult, too taxing
knocks on its shell.
If you look closely, you’ll see that by the edges of my mouth, I have wrinkles
(from laughing)
my lips, teeth, pleasant smiles are the greys of my wardrobe
the precise things that hide, deceive, layer
because everything that is true
is too, too much.

an older version of chai rain

I remember opening the sliding balcony door
and taking in the first whiff of winter;
burnt almonds, cigarette stubs, and icy lungs.

Silent excitement to see the first snow
and get its flakes stuck all over our wool jackets
while seeing our breath extend out in front of our eyes.

I suppose it’s the same now, there is still snow,
still the slightly foggier, slightly more polluted winter stench
but this time it climbs into my bones,
makes them creaky and old and lonely.

I wonder that happiness does not burst my every sense–
surely there is reason for that,
reason to wake up each day with fresh eyes and softer skin.
But I don’t, and season changes are pervasive nonetheless.

The romantic in me ages as I do–
seeing beauty in balanced checkbooks
and dustless bookshelves instead of
rainy gutters filled with water that’s the colour of chai.