exhausted, I bend to kiss
the burning dark,
I find your lips
blinded by this cold eclipse.

If I give you love
what will I get in return?
will it be acknowledged?
or will it be but spurned?
If I offer my love
will you be mine forever?
or will you laugh at me
and say to me   - not ever.
Am I just a fool in love?
head over heels and blind?
silly and sheepish, blushing
not knowing what's in my mind?
I stand on the steps of happiness
worried, lest I fall
falling at your feet
all curled up in a ball.
Columbus took a chance
and by God - he did all right
I cannot leave you now
without putting up a fight.
I smiled and said I love you
my voice began to crack
but your eyes lit up I swear
as you smiled at me right back!

I always knew about the ocean's calling, deep in my heart. It keeps me wandering to find what I yearn for — could it testify the animosity of being insatiable?

I wait on the shore like a lighthouse guiding your way back to me, as if I hold faith in it, like it is a perseverance that grew in my chest. I am certain to the florescence of my flowers and to its withering as I know the  durations of its life and death is when I could meet you again. And though, the inconstant desolateness of the ocean continues to wait.

I was a dead body, decaying in decades of wreckage, buried in my tarnished land. Shape shifting into a muse that acquires its sunday best to stand tall, relentlessly.

And yet life is much wiser than to all of my whims, molding my heart as a vessel of my misadventures, and veins that bears my broken dreams. I still dance on a hard wood floor, memorizing the creaks on it; memorizing the fear of falling.

My skin and bone grows in unfamiliar love, shaped into a misery, it is morphed on my own garden of heaven and abyss, relinquished its life in romanticism and death.

I'm sure the multiverse is existing
I'm sure that I got you there
because I miss you every single day
and that feeling links to the other me.
I'm sure this yearning means that we're close in that other world.

Sometimes we get answers to all of our mysteries in the world after a catastrophic event; I picked the last petal of the flower, telling me he loves me not.