“Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table.”

— T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

It’s been nearly a year!

I’m back – perhaps not in all my glory, but here nonetheless. I’ve told myself more than once (and maybe the one or two readers still here) that I’ll write more often, share small moments, and note the things that catch my eye. But life has a way of sweeping me along.

Maybe this time will be different.

We’ll see.

-s

When the last spark flickers out,
walls press in, tight as breath,
and voices rise like a tide,
streets pulsing with cold, empty light;
sharp, electric, devouring the night.

Control drifts away like smoke,
thanks dissolve into ash,
and the void crashes down,
heavy against open hands.

Shadows dance just out of reach,
tears spill, probing the dark,
seeking the echoes of laughter
where once
something warm used to blaze.

-s

Sometimes it’s a flicker,
a fleeting thought,
a wish, or a shift.

A shift? Too ordinary.

Librans—
October no longer belongs to them.

But /ˈlʌɪbrə/
Libra stays.

No one daydreams like them,
no one dreams like them.

-s

My mind drifts to Tracey’s big canvases—
The blood,
The love,
The pink,
The sobs,
The hate,
The nipples,
All that truly matters.

What if she dies?
What if she stops,
Leaving behind fragments
I can never piece together?
What if I never get to see her
See through her again?

-s
London, Oct. 8, 2024

Head spinning from last night’s blah blah blah,
but the ice cube—still perfect,
lingers in my mind.
The space between cancel and go,
melting, shifting,
I made it—barely,
just enough.

Told Paulina November,
but who knows what will stay,
what will melt,
what will blur,
before then.

-s

Some of us know exactly what war is; its ugly, relentless nature; how it creeps into everything, leaving fear in its path. It’s like an insect crawling into your soul, impossible to shake.

I was just five years old when the Iran-Iraq war started; even now, I can still smell the dampness of our basement, feel the heavy silence, and see the fear in my parents’ eyes.

A few years later, when Tehran was under missile strikes, I remember the cold, crowded shelters; the bloody sound of sirens sending shivers through us; our hearts trembling with each sound. My father would cover me with his body, shielding me from a world that was falling apart. That kind of fear, and the trauma that comes with it, never really leaves you.

War doesn’t just take lives; it rips apart families, steals childhoods, and leaves deep scars on the innocent. It’s a force that destroys lives and futures in an instant, leaving nothing but grief and loss behind.

No to war.

-s
Toronto, Oct. 2024

The dead clock breaks to pieces,
Anguished faces
Leering at shattered mirrors.

I think of time, ticking—
Of the core, pounding—
And you. Are you embarrassed?

There’s never, never a word.
Absence.

-s

What’s happening up there?
They’ve lit up the whole night for us.
For us, my love.
Can you count the bulbs?
One, two. One, two, three, four, five, six…
Ah, my eyes!
Nine fifty-seven.

Let’s practice the words.
The clicks.
The shame.
Let’s prepare for the night beyond tonight.
Hold his games, and hold again.
Hold them tight, so he cherishes
Your touch.

Walk the ants’ path,
In step with a million
Black lines.
Inhale the green,
Mix it with “the ends”
In the name of your highness!

-s

The clock ticks,
and when it stops,
the room floods red.
Blood red.

A conflict stirs within—
fierce,
raw,
instinctive,
dark.

Silence shatters.

-s