“…you cannot truly love another until you know how to love yourself.”

one. two. three.

plucking, picking
like flowers withered in the middle of a baking summer a decade ago though. i love her.

i breezed through it
like the east wind;  learned of wabi-sabi   pottery   my vitreous face and body.
i learned to weave lacquer in my skin   play with broken chords in an opera and smile because i love her.

there’s this silence in the opera house because the audience want more but i can’t give perfect notes. besides
the chords aren’t broken  eyes are  and thoughts   break
it’s similar to ceramics. leave her alone, i love her.

i stare at the mirror, at who i used to be; touching places the human eyes refuse to see smiling at how i’ve fallen
for a special clay pot

my aesthetic self.