We—the two of us—
are not boyfriend and girlfriend.
We hate each other.

On an otherwise
unblemished chin I do spy
a nasty pimple.

As you read these words
you may picture blueberries
which say “I like you.”

And what of symbols?
Do they 🗣️? Or keep silent
like a falling 🍃

With your morning text
my heart beats like the bass drum
of this day’s shared name.

Smoosh is a cute word,
and might recall a flower
pressed 'tween two pages.

“If you could see me
right now, you’d leave me,” she says.
I’ve surely seen worse.

Is the mask for you?
Or does it protect others
from your stinky breath?

On a field of red,
a golden star welcomes you
as I wake today.

A Tiger on ice.
For losers in Ho Chi Minh,
an old favorite.

I embark today
on a fantastic voyage
toward you, my dear.

Between a coral,
a peach, and a flamingo,
I find your new nails.

You walk as I drive.
Fly East, as I will fly West.
Moving reflections.

Today I must nap
because a certain someone
texted me all night.

Why tidy? You know
neatness can’t last, and will lead
to mess again soon.

Friend One through Friend Four:
Impersonal names, perhaps,
but quickly recalled.

“Wake up, time to go.
You have a bus to catch, dear.
Time to come to me.”

A warm sun rises
on a final summer’s day
where I once called home.

In the atmosphere,
time slows, a day vanishes
into nothingness.

Six stations between
Tsurumi and Tamachi.
A crooked blue line.

I awake with you.
Grind, steep, stir, press, pour, and sip.
Morning rituals.

In Enoshima,
the sun leaves salty traces
of sea on your skin.

Bic Cam’ra, Daiso,
or Mega Don Quijote?
Shopping, overwhelmed.

Chewy golden bears,
if not for my impatience,
would soon melt to one.

Communication
is key, and I want to say
I’m glad to be here.

When it’s hot outside,
we stay cool with burr-itos
and en-chill-adas.

Cute people can make
cute things; but there’s no thing that
can make people cute.

A plain wooden box
affixed with a switch — flip it,
turn me on (and off).

If we meet today,
I hope we may later part
and call it a date.

As waves in the wake,
a month has passed, and floats off,
shimmering, shrinking.

It ends as it starts.
And now that this is over,
are we maybe…us?