Dominique Cachuela

Edition XVIII

Almost Midnight Suburban Thought - by Dominique Cachuela (Photo by Pujohn Das)Photo credit: Pujohn Das

Almost Midnight Suburban Thought

By Dominique Cachuela

A humid night stills.
There are no stars
no signals
just motions for
the steady notions.

I have changed.
Everybody does.
But there are some
moments I want to relive
that I can’t seem to
get a grasp of.
Looking at my trails,
I do not seem to get that far,
I’ve been running in circles
for days.
I can only look back
and I can’t get past
the thick glass separating
the present and
the days of my youth.

I wanted to break the glass
but it resides within
the deepest chambers
of which I can no longer


the beer in front of me
is getting warm by the

It’s another day of work

Edition XXXI

dɪˈprʌɪvd - by Dominique Cachuela (Photo by Matthew Wiebe)Photo credit: Matthew Wiebe


By Dominique Cachuela

Only smoke lives inside
this empty chest now.

A book lying in my bed
is the only companion I have
during most nights
and for the following nights.
I can’t confide with it
or exchange words with it.
Only it fills the little gaps,
small spaces that I recently have made room for.

It will take time to remember how to take
a few steps,

it always does, but I’m in no hurry.

One good thing about it is it doesn’t hurt
like it used to;
and I wonder if it really
mattered, all those four years
because I couldn’t feel anything
from it.

I keep having this thought in mind
that loneliness granted for a long
period of time isn’t so bad
after all.

I could use some solitude, some peace, privacy and time and time again
to reflect.

However, loneliness isn’t good for
a heart that chooses to take action on its own.

It doesn’t matter, for I can always cover it up
for as long as I could

There are plenty of women out there,
but now’s not the time for that since
I have no use for relationships built within
the confines of the social
especially nowadays where, no one wants to keep their happiness to themselves

hold it like some treasure, bury it deep down like you wouldn’t want anyone else
to find it once you get your hands on it

And this poem
is as horrible as, serves as a tribute to
the last relationship
I had.

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