11.01.14 | Coincide

The universe is trying to tell me something, she thought, when she finished her shower gel and shampoo on the same night. The bottles sighed pomegranate and mint when her fingers embraced them, but they oozed no fluids—they were dry. Empty.
Both of them.
This is rarer than cosmic alignment, she thought.
It’s like— like emptying a jar of peanut butter on the same sandwich as a jar of jam.

And three days later, it happened.
She did not have time to wash the jars before work, so she left them to soak in the sink. She did, however, have time to make coffee and discover that—of course—the lone coffee filter remaining in the carton would contain the last of her coffee ground.

No doubt about it, the universe was definitely trying to tell her something.

Everything’s dying.
In pairs.

And I will die alone.

—

When predicting a series of coin flips, one typically would not predict more than five heads in a row. The coincidence would be too absurd.
But when a coin is actually flipped and yields ten consecutive heads, people flip.
Statistically speaking, any permutation of such binaries would have the same probability. Heads-tails-heads-heads-tails is just as likely as heads-heads-heads-heads-heads.

That was what she told herself.

Assuming a fair coin, at least.
Coincidences aren’t supposed to mean anything.

—

The next morning, two doors down.

He held his milk carton vertically over the bowl, and shook it slightly, examining the white beads as they fell. The cereal crumbs that had been at the bottom of the bag now floated at the top of the bowl, trembling as the milk drops struck the surface.

He blinked.
Finishing these on the same day—what could this possibly mean?

06.11.12 | Ginkgo Biloba

Goethe wondered
Whether the bi-lobed ginkgo leaf
Represented a rift
Or a marriage.

All I know
Is that in this golden grove
Our minds intertwined
And became One.

2011.11.12 | poeir

Published in the Oct 2011 issue of SHSID|Times.

I spilt the sun and drank the clouds and slept among the winds.
I learned their songs and stole their hearts and locked myself within.

09.25.11 | An Ode

To love, or not to love?
That is the question—
Whether ‘tis nobler for the soul to suffer
The golden arrows of mischievous Cupid,
Or to take arms against a sea of passions,
And by opposing, quell them?

07.30.11 | we play our cards

Cometh.
Don't tell me
someone
taps
on the porch.
I don't want to hear
sudden touch
crosses slowly.
Don't ask questions.
The Cardinal's.
I see you,
we met before.
His name and
settled first
smiling for the photo.
We play our cards.
I may change,
I was doing wrong.
There was a mad dog.
We've been waiting.

06.02.11 | What I Should Have Done (But Didn't)

I saw what you did

with that unripe Persimmon.

It had fallen off its Tree,

wanted to be free,

but it shriveled up

and died.

You picked it up,

just as you always did

with all the other little things

that caught your eye—

but you didn't put this one

in your pocket,

to my surprise.

You cupped it in your hands

and walked to the side of the road.

You placed it there

in the fertile soil,

to return it to the Cycle,

fulfilling its dream

betimes.

05.20.11 | Image of Imago: The Cabbage White

From afar it looks complete—head, thorax, abdomen. The antennae protrude from the head proudly but limp, and the four fragile ivory wings look more elegant than ever, as they are motionless. The feathery scales are silky as my fingers skim over them.

What delicate creatures, butterflies are.

But this one's dead.