(while you enjoy your soup of the day)

Photo by Tetiana SHYSHKINA on Unsplash

I’m walking down a path I’ve lived before and

as my legs give out, so does the center of my chest I

inherited a phlegmatic soul, from the cold world around me, still,

I tread on, eager to melt the ice in people

like you, who look past me —

a vaporized spectre made of thin air —

that caresses you without ever possibly

asking to be caressed in return.

Never for me has been a warm body in sight,

but so I’ll keep looking for sunlight,

with all of my might,

and my eyes shining bright.

Author: Iffah Suraya



A Poem.

Photo by Darren Welsh on Unsplash

Once, you starred in my almost-nightmare,

slashed by a werewolf, you cried in terror. Though I suspect it might have been your own claws,

redness dripping just to show me what you’re made of: part canis lupus, part baby; mostly, sweet lifeblood. I think

you did it to psych yourself up again, for rising to the moon’s fierce occasion,

you did it with full surprise at yourself, how necessary it was for you to stain the earth of my slumber before the moon gave up on

— you, a howling baby warmly cradled by my adoring arms, wounding and glitching between metallic infant, babbling canine. Suddenly,

there was a bright-eyed Fantastic Mr. Fox, looking up at me with hello-eyes, and so I awoke with a half-smile,

delighted that you had settled for the in-between.



These nights I dream of nothing

but when I wake I ache

for you, a blank face, a warm voice,

a familiar scent.

My hands have held yours before. You’re not here

but I can see us dancing, exchanging cozy laughs you

put your arms around my hands, careful not to get too close,

to not take me as you want me but just as I am, my own person.

But seeing you see me up close, I zone out and escape into sleep

and dreamt so many dreams of you,

that I now dream of nothing.




All things life, spirituality, healing, psychotherapy, trauma-related, & mindfulness. Occasionally food & poetry.