stop waiting for an opening,
there is no way to know him
than to walk into his skin
and become everything he has become.
i never have heard of people dying from door knocks.
he carries a pass-permit of
every sentences that has travelled
through his experiences. it’s a way he can only
make people see the little bird inside of him.
his mother has only one picture in her room,
and her nights are prayers plaited with halos; it’s how
she keeps record of people who poke her dreams.
his father does not like the portrait
of himself on the parlour wall; he leaves it there still
just for visitors who can’t pronounce his name.
i shared a drink with him
and noticed a few things:
a: he looks up at the sky and falls asleep.
b: his pains are not compasses into an empty room.
c: there’re no fireflies trapped in a bottle under his bones.