I would like to be that girl;
the protagonist that doesn't cry.
Where she is able to push aside fears and tears, like fog on a mirror.
Her hands aren't afraid to be ***** and ******.

But bitterness and anger drool stickily on mine.

Right now, I am what I am.
This is all you get.
And it's not up to myself
for you
to
want me.

There is an inexplicable magic
- sweet & short; the bitten back lips sort of pain-
something imbued with time.

For it survived through the silent deafening tick-rocks.
Little silvers and wisps of yellowed newspaper ink tailor itself in your cold coat pockets.

Oh yes,
dust-motes, blood & teardrops lay between its spaces.
But, it is still there.
Right between your seemingly fragile fingertips.

You're here now, make it count.

innocence

blooms

at dawn.

And he held her hand so tight, she could feel how hard bones are. Even against flesh and blood.

She thought her bones may crack.

But it never quite occurred to her, he had been broken and is still *breaking.

And his kisses on her skin felt like wisps of butterfly wings,
then to a slow inferno.

She lit up the unfound constellations of sweet syllables
in
the recesses of his mind.

The way your voice sounded 357 pages ago,
a sweet cut across on wintry darkness; flitting out were all the stars.

The little husky notes living in the
b r e a t h i n g s p a c e s
of
your lungs and mouth to lips are like bookmarks.

I never quite lost the page I stopped at.
I dare not read on.

I'll like to think that we are all glass figures, people, whatever.
We are fragile, delicate, malleable when heated, at times we can be coolly transparent.
But the undeniable truth that we always come back to is that we can all
break.
Under pressure- the sort that splinters pieces of wide-eyed innocence and hope, the kind of disappointment so pale, you can see it in their skin- it results into little fissures of weaknesses spidering out into ugly cross-roads. Which I think we will inevitably walk on.
And suddenly, with those gaping cracks,
we are no longer quite so impervious to
the bad or the good.
Frankly, as sickeningly cliche this may sound, it is universally accepted that it is the very inside that will start to bleed into those crossroads.
So, yeah, it is the inside that counts.
And I wish I could have learnt that without cutting my hands
red and raw
on these broken shards of glass.

It's time to be happy,

happy to the tip of my toes & flicks of my rather short eyelashes.

Imagine how utterly terrifying would the whole universe be if there was a faceless clock.
Just faceless clocks.

That dictated the way earth shall be lived in the most minimalistic sense.

No hour hand, no tinks, no tick-tocks and no numbers.
That will allow us to regretfully or mercifully go on.

The gears and everything are in place.
But there is
nothing.

Just silence that will deafen your ears.
Silence that your screams cannot pierce.

Yes, that is me now.
I have no bearing, no sure sense.
Simply lost.

*Tick-tock.

In the crook of their necks,
the two thieves fell in love.
♡

Inherently,
there are those memories that ****** away at our crinkled hearts.

Some pull & tug in the same way,
eyelids close  
slowly and sleepily on Sunday mornings.

A few and a half dust-motes on memories are like paper cuts.

Short, sweet, stinging.

A handful are incredibly blurry, is it for the best?

Whether, my fingertips are trying to paint a lie white,
even, my mind is not too sure.

I keep living and breathing past tense.

I  liked the way your lips turned downwards before that smile,
the roughness of your fingertips against mine.

Of course, it is all gone now.

You are gone now.

And I have not even forgiven myself
for
forgetting how it             *f e l t.

Let grateful, itself kiss your skin.

Let it twirl and wisp around those fingertips you can tweedle with,
to
write, draw, make unimaginable,wonderful
untitled somethings.

Slowly but surely,
that effervescent feeling bubble into your body;
sparks of bliss lighting those dark, dark oblivions.

I don't care!
Let those words
carelessly snuggle
themselves
in
the lines of your fingerprint.

Bare those pearly whites
everywhere,
sweet-heart!

A single eyelash, one orchird petal and a flannel shirt button.

She kept them in an old shoebox sandwiched against old sneakers with laces knotted like lovers, old yellowing papers and letters. All of which had dated back 5, seven, 11, twenty-1, 29 years ago.

All of them incongruous objects, but they all belong in the past.
I outgrew them, my mind memorized all the words on those pages.
Once from a person I knew.

I don't love him.
Lie

I loved him.
past tense

I had loved him.
still past-tense

I love him.
*Present tense. It's now.

The scary, bold whisper of a truth is that pinning blame is careless.

You feel the slow *****; a smart of pain.

A sweet sting.

Just enough to draw blood to the surface, but not enough for a bandage.

Misspellings.

Coincidental; little mistakes
that make us
oh, so very
human.

A stroke or a little flick of ink that makes that dizzying difference
between what your lips wants to say
and
what is starkly conventional.

But trust me,
sweets,
when I write
I love you
at the
very end of
creased
coffee-stained and red lipped marked
napkins.

It isn't quite a mistake.

Hush those slightly alarmed eyes.

Perhaps, it's just my white heart painted red's
blissful
*fall.

The distilled silence are like dusty mirror reflections of
my breaths
&
slow heart beats
in this terribly empty room.

Be careful*
when you hold my hand.
Please?
As much as my winter-bitten lips refuse to say

"I am fragile."

Don't worry, spring will kiss them.

Between my wrist and fingertips, bear a gossamer web of time's sewing, see that criss-cross there, yes, it's still mending.

Little threads of fine, fine alchemy.

Above all, be very careful & wide-eyed
with my heart.

The space between my ribs and my white heart painted red
bears
old, old scars
that never quite
closed
to
s l e e p.

Creased memories still peek-a-boo here & there
before
threads and thin lines of time seam them away.

It is scary, I know.

But, I promise,
I'll do the same for you, sweet-heart.

Okay,
it took a little time.

A handful ,
no!
Make it a teacup
full
of
tick-tocks.

With
a
dash of sugar.

Twice.

A twist of lemon.

One tap of the silver spoon.

It took a while
melded
with
patient waiting
for me
to
see
&
blushingly admit
precisely how much
I have
fallen
into
your *gravit
                              y.

What if flowers bloom in fire & glass-jars?

Perhaps, in muted sunshine, melding with peaks of incandescence & fire-flies, something indestructible will be left.

let her staunter through twigs, broken leaves and buds of cigarettes.

{Nothing will bloom from them.}

Let her know the difference between the innocence of a white dress and white flowers.

Let her realise the uselessness of a lighter with damp, soggy cigarettes.

{You never needed the latter.}

Let her feel the nervousness of a stranger bandaging a wound,

& then the shyness of the fiftieth kiss.

There is a difference.

Let her know she never needed you, but

The big but is that

she loves him
&
he loves her.

Goodness, how many are there in my very heart & soul?

Even I am not entirely sure myself.

What makes me gasp with undiluted surprise and widened eyes is that
you,
sweet-heart,
manage to find each and every single one of them.
You say a shy 'Hello' and nudge the not-so-good softly.

You see me bare & human.

I saw my days in your eyes,

the flecks of gravel, a little grey cloud
&
a deep warmth between the hazel specks.

So, a crooked smile led to one shy hello.

The
Hello met Hi.

Scuffed shoes nudges patented heels;
whilst fingertips whisper their balmy warmness into one another.

Witty, sweet nothings filled the little empty spaces from his lips to hers.
Which may have led to coffee with a raised eyebrow and crimson cheeks.

Two plates of risotto
&
4 forks
eventually
replaced
by
1 plate of strawberry cheesecake
&
2 dessert forks.

Then,

I fell met *in love.

I ran out of vanilla beans & rock sugar.

The porcelain bowls were left with this peculiar mush of bitterness.
An odd sharpness shuddering down into my empty stomach.
My fingers slipped:
I added a pinch too much of regret
&
a tablespoon
of sadness.

One day, airy concoctions that taste like summer memories will flit in and out of the kitchen window.

It's okay, & maybe if I am lucky someone's knee will playfully bump against mine.
Flour on noses & cheeks.

One day.

He said he liked her hair long.

She just had a pixie cut.

So, she put down the kitchen scissors.
Letting spring and summer warm her bones.

And then he dared to say
"I miss your high cheekbones and the nape of your neck."

Once upon a time, on a blank page, out of pure wide-eyed wonder,
I began to etch everything I know and have yet to realize
on it.

One thing is for certain,
the end is
*far,
far,
away.

Oh look, there goes a little bit of my mind,

where is it off to now?

Don’t say sorry.

I reach down to the grass and snap off the stem of a daisy.

The sweet tang of it seeps into the air.

I give it to him.

“See, can you understand now? I cannot sew this.. daisy back. I simply can’t. I cannot put it back together or let it wander into its niche; its sun dappled world.”

Unforgiving silence fills in the blanks of all the words we wish to say.

I step closer to him.

“But you know what, when Spring comes in 365 days, after 525600 minutes of rain, grey skies, ice, hail, sun, blue skies and clouds, it will come back alive."

"Please don't leave me."

One of, no, the few truthful words that will softly & slowly pull your mind into ragged edges and creases, like a promise.

For, it is those silent words finally speaking aloud.

It is the confession that has etched onto the inner wrists,
all of those midnight,
                                         2am,          then
                                              ­                             11am thoughts.
I can breath.
Just slightly, sure, oxyegn does fill my cells. Perfectly. Carbon dioxides escapes through my raw lips. In & out, easy.

My heart works just fine.
It falters now and again.

My damp fingertips are intact, despite the tears.

My soul is not.

But, I still want you

                                       here.

I was happy yesterday, but I am happier today.
The -ier abbreviates for porterhouse steak, red wine, damp suede shoes, red lips, witty banter, petrichor and most of all, *her.

" But then again, life itself is a paradox. All in betweens and slow dances between yes & no.

Maybe what I would like is certainty and promise.
I want a sunday morning, 2:49pm phone calls,
unwashed dinner plates in the sink, two towels needing a tumble-dry.
Two tooth-brushes. Grocery bills worth two & a half stomachs.

To know the taste of someone's laugh.
Something that started as butterfly kisses
that burned into
                   a slow bloom of an inferno.

But Monday will come and life continues."

I daydream f a r  too much.

My eyes must have been kissed by the starry sky  

& ampersand &

the wispy clouds are tickling the very tip of my nose,

and
oh
yes,

I am on my tiptoes.

My words fall out

bolder {bigger and bubbled as if bee-stung},

then I meant.

Perhaps, that is why promises get broken.

Pinky finger bones crinkle and crumble like egg tarts and raw sugar.

The words, the lies, the truth are all bigger than my hands, heart can give you.

You know the beat of songs slows and matches your very heart-beat.
Its notes speaks all your unspoken wishes and words.

Sweet-heart, that's what your voice does to me.

Each word is like this little letter of emotion,
a little piece of you that melds into my mind.
They inexplicable etch themselves without my permission of 'yes!' across the edges of
my
heart.

Slowly and surely,
you became a lot of my favourite things.

Uh-oh?

Hold on a little longer.

Your veins need a pinch of time + a few more starry nights to become a little more impervious.

Oh, you are still fragile, but the kind of soft and all raw edges.

A bruise of a reminder that you have waltzed on broken fractures & bones of wishes hollowed out too soon.

And you are still here,

blood burnt out into alchemy.

You are quite like magic.

*We all are.

It's . . .                                      
the scrape-your-knees,
messy,
yet simple misconstrued concept
of why is the sky blue sort of fancying.

It's silly, it's sweet as cherry pie and honey, this liking to him.

The type that lights up this warm hue in your eyes.

Which is by the way, the sort of effervescent feeling that curve your lips upwards so softly,
it slips past your lulling conscience and dazed & starry-eyed gaze.

Yes, its kissing stupidity; tickling with giggles.
Yes, your cheeks are hued crimson, to the tops of your ears.

But then, he simply says 'Huh, do I look like that too?'
and
winks
like
it's a little unspoken
'yes'
between
your lips.

"Not everything about you, sweet-heart, is weird.
A wink flits into a mind; this gorgeous upside-down moon crescent.
It does not matter, (like a comma, his fingertips said a shy hello to hers.)
if one's eyebrow is slightly more arched than the other
or
there are freckles dotting your skin
No.
Don't you ever think it is a defect.
It is not.
Please do not protest.
If you wish to go down that way, hm, then
it's
the most imperfect, lovely perfections
that has
nudged & tickled
my heart once,
twice & ∞
"

To finish his sentence, he kissed the tip of her nose like a full stop
.

Messy fishtail braids tickling your collar bones
as we both lie on this secret place; only our hearts know.

No stranger; no-one will ever whisk it away from our lips.

For, this map, atlas, bearing
is etched and inked
on the edge of
our bruised and loved hearts.

Eyes glowing fleet with a sweet, tender smile,
Warmth ruffles my naïve heart, a spring bloom.
Red ringlets of blush tickle for a while,
Unfurling petals whisper, panic looms.

A veil over sight all is crystal clear,
My destiny is right in front of me.
You smile, a thousand memories appear,
Each steady step, one hand; love flutters free.

A puff of white hair, which you stroke gently,
Crinkled fingertips laced, a soft glow gleams.
Your eyes slowly trace my face differently,
Clouds of shyness and a scarlet blush beams.

If this were true love, judgment speaks of lies.
My lovely fairytale has no goodbye.

Please just carefully pick up the jigsaw pieces of my heart on the floor.

Yes, I can put it back.
No matter, how much time etches into my very skin.
I
can
do
   it.

I just feel that if I can see the dust-motes on my shoes, I won't be able to get up again.

Just, please?

Please, also,
look at the little pieces too.

See your finger-prints on it; that was from the first time your fingertips kissed mine.

See that little memory crumpled and creased saying 'Hello?'

Whisper
a
soft good-bye.

*Please, sweets?

Ink infuses into the depths of these blank, slightly creased pages.
Within it are little intangible but ever so omnipresent
pockets of bitter sweetness; just like fizzy,freshly squeezed lemonade
+
starry-eyed innocence x shy crimson cheeks

Dotted by moments of those cheeky upside down crescents; winks.
Strings of old time flit between dots and rusted locks.

I keep my fingers crossed
selfishly
that one day,

your lips
will
say

"I missed this,
my mind still flickers back
at
the stars
reflected
in
your wide eyes
on that very night."

It sure does in mine, sweet-heart.

Home is full of secrets.
The first laugh and all the laughs in between the last of a baby muffled itself into the bedroom walls. His mother sometimes sit in front of it, hoping, hoping it could live in her ears again.

The nervous movement of lip to lip, neck to neck, heart to heart in the wardrobe, in between jeans and cotton button-downs.
Getting dressed is still achingly difficult. And it is getting truly ridiculous now.

Those holding-too-tight-yet, you-are- still- not- close- enough sort of hugs under tired doorways.
You were enough, you are always enough.

Within swelled up throats, the unsaid words hid themselves in odd drawers, cabinets and a handful of knooks & crannies.
I opened a drawer today and I very nearly cried.

For I heard your voice, your breaths, then brushed again with the warmth and coldness of your wrists. All of which were in different dimensions of time and memories.

And I try and am still trying to keep my pen on the page. For, its to keep you alive, again.
A few words has already slipped and tip-toed off the page.
I'll find it someday.
(Putting something far, far, far off the horizon eyes can possibly see is the sort of thing, humans are terribly good at.)