fawkes is a pheonix, harry.

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shit yeah, yo'.
i finished my journal! yes baby. my new one ( moleksin sketch ) is rather small, though, and based on my average daily amount of writing, i should be finished in about three months.
ah, the smell of ink and raw paper.
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i went to south coast plaza today and helped my aunt pick out a bag at LV and some beauty things and kiehl's while she listened helplessly to my ramblings about fashion and vuitton's milk-maid themed spring '07 collection. i felt kind of bad for her. oops.
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i little thing i made for eric. i passed it on to him through a mutual acquaintance, though, so i'm not sure if he likes it or not.


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and my english haiku assignment. we had to decorate it. for goodness sake's we're not in kindergarten anymore. either way, it was fun.


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and a poem:

desolée

I.

the weight of her head,
so full of stagnant thought,
filling the pale palms
of her hands
with heaviness
and heat.

the cigarette,
half smoked,
resting on the vicious edge
of the ash tray
about a foot away;
the smoke dancing upward
from the softly whispering tip
that steadily ebbs away,
emitting the rotting scent
of burnt tobacco.

the room is filled
with even more grey.

II.

eyes closed in a grimace,
brows drawn closer,
a look of exhaustion.
the window was left unclosed
and the door ajar
having stopped its lazy swinging
after being throw open,
slammed, and victim to inertia.

the air trickled in,
feeling foreign
amidst the darker,
contained atmosphere.

the imprint of his presence lingered
as if reluctant
and angry.

she felt his disbelief,
his hurt, and
the slowed beating of her heart.

III.

her limbs, thin and still,
elbows propped
on the sweetened wood
of the table
at which, once,
he painted, using his hands
and his colors
as if the canvas
was her skin.

shivers ran up her arms,
the curve before her knee,
the back of her neck.
as if he was there again.

"c'était une
méprise."

she can still smell
her clothes, and
the cold has not yet dulled.