My Writing, Ramblings

Chord of Faces

What’s this?! A poem? On a Tuesday??? Why, yes. Yes, it is. I wrote this poem on a whim, and while it may not be the most eloquent, I thought I’d share because it’s one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy!


Chord of Faces

If deja vu

had deja vu,

a spinning song too similar

to a ballad belted before,


then that would be 

my symphony.

A chord of faces

reminding you of someone,


but they have dissipated 

right from the tip of your tongue.

I have not only rented here

at a previous place in time;


this place looks exactly 

how I feel:

a numbed memory,

a wisp of the past


lifting into the air,

twirling its tail,

disappearing from beneath

your fingers.


A man once told me

that I look like an actress,

my long, wavy hair,

my nose, maybe.


But I’m not.


To me, an unfamiliar face

looks like a cheap replica

of the real thing. 

An empty piece of pottery


painted like Picasso’s

Starry Night.

Knock-off Hugh Jackman.

Orlando Bloom from the Dollar Store.


She could be Sasha Turner’s 

niece’s husband’s dog’s previous owner,


A different man,


wearing a black top hat,

asked if we’d met.

We hadn’t, but in his eyes

lay recognition, as if, as if


in my eyes,

he caught a glimpse of

someone else’s



I pass another landmark 

in a place unfamiliar,

and I feel the building 

reach out to me.


It says, “I know you,” 

but I don’t know it.

I’ve passed it ten thousand times, 

for a million miles,


yet all I see are different

blurry lands,

marked only by their

strangeness to my eyes.


East and West mean nothing to me.

They are distant second cousins

that I never see,

but they still remember,


and I don’t.

Every once in a while, 

a rush of warmth runs

through my bones


and I say, “Yes! There you are.

I found you.”

And they say,

“I’m sorry. Have we met?”


Another man told me once

that to listen to my voice

is like pulling 



On the phone, I can wear

a disguise.

I sound like

my sister.


In person, I sound like

a mouse squeak,

a whisper of a ghost’s ghost.

When I become a ghost,


what will I be?


Even alive, 

I leave no footprints,

every step I take,

my joints pop and creak,


an orchestra of grinding bones.

My ankles crack, my neck

stretches, my spine

pops, chord by chord—


pop, pop, pop, pop, pop—


Still, no one hears my approach.

A woman once told me

to speak up, so

I yelled.


A silence fell, and I’m sure

I reminded her 

of something

that is not me.


If deja vu

had deja vu,

then I am Picasso’s 

Starry Night.


Photo by Andy Holmes on Unsplash