I remember when I saw you on top of the hill; hand in your heart, mouth curved into a crescent-shaped smile.
You looked surprisingly placid for a boy whose mind was like an exploding star.

You couldn't have been more than south of fourteen,
and yet you had the imagination like Verne in revolt;
laughs that akin to an uproar industrial machinery;
and nerves of steel.

And together, you and I were like loose cannons of catastrophic ideas and eclectic dream of travelling around the world in eighty days.

You were my best friend; my confidant,
you were the reason why life was like a waltz to me.

But better yet,
you were my safe haven.

You were my home.

When the night falls,
I am at my best.

I could topple from the sky for a saunter amongst the wingless owls arbitrarily.
Carrying my futile attempt on serving the sun with a contempt glance,
As I let my imagination run free like nine jockeys in one horse race.

When the night falls,
I am the captain of my own ship.

I could set my course straight to my hiding place without any further ado;
Where I'd sail to where dreams and phantasies collide until the clock strikes two.

But most importantly,
When the night falls, life isn't like crossing a palisade or walking through a horrible gale;
Life isn't like a perpetual movement of climbing up the rickety stairs or losing a bet to the middleman.

Life isn't as stilted as when I stood dead on the yawnful street or as boisterous as the crowds watching King Louis guillotined to death.

Because there is only peace.

The skies may be the blackest black; the air may be the emptiest space,
but none like the night
where I can sit and stare,
and watch as the moon and the stars
shine my way.

We met at the junction of your misery,
both high-strung and molars grinding like toothache.

Maybe it was my fault
Or maybe it was your folly,
But neither you nor I were aware
that this was a swath that brought us to our disrepair.

I should've known better,
I should've handed you my resignation.
Even heaven knows you've always had a palisade mouth;
sharp edges with misspent words,
teeth kisses with minor incision.

But we were shipwrecks coalesced by force,
fate's own masterwork where devils meddled their crooked hands in the ***.

Like a time bomb awaiting to explode,
we were in for our imminent destruction.

But I had nowhere else to go.

You could be an antidote,
a place to hide during the summer solstice,
a pair of closed eyelids during nightmares,

you could be the sweater I wore last Christmas,
a frozen hand to hold in the Sahara,
the smell of the ocean at six in the morning,

you could be the overture of a play,
a love seat in a nearby cafe,
the gradient of colours of a twilight,

you could be the sugar in my tea,
the sound of the pouring rain,
a poetry that lasted for ages,

you,
my gruff voiced wallflower,
this I want you to know;
some love seethed,
some stay placid for years.
some lost their spark,
some still felt like their first day.

but we both know love is a test of fidelity,
a voyage that knows no bound,
so take my hand,
take your paddle,
if you'll row with me until sundown,
let us see where the seas will take us.

we tried.
            i did.
                  you did.

dearest, our love was like the honeymoon
            and honeymoon is a cruel sea.

Sugar cubes get drenched by the rain--
again.

Bedraggled but careless,
You continue to watch them
As if curios in the antique store on a trance lane.

Aggravation makes a chamber in your veins,
What shall the tea be served with?
An insect awake from its slumber watching you,
Pacing back and forth from grass to gravel
Be wary, I'd say--
Keep your wits up-close and within grasp!
You always had the finesse.

The guests won't come until noon, thus,
Go posthaste where they sell butter and Shanghai noodle,
I'll wait for you,
On the doorstep.
The cubes have melting away.

if i jot down the first syllable of your name,
think nothing of it.

if i convince myself with a startingly, dizzying
clarity and call it a victory
even if it means losing any semblance of my self-control around you,
think nothing of it.

if i conjure an image of you & i in my head
and pretend we are some depressed intellectuals,
self-hating provocateurs dressed up like some coltish,
out-of-place ivy leaguers waiting on death row,
think nothing of it.

if i'm not careful around you, and slip on the snow
that is the surface of your heart,
think nothing of it.

but if i tell you i love you,
know that it means more than everything that means nothing.

Thin as a lath; eyes of the prairie,
Forsythia the colour of your crowning glory.

Mouth tastes like chalk; touches resemble to an art.
When will I realize, this creature's spell only comes out before dark?

Heed I will, halt I won't.
Your grace deserves an enticing adventure:
a dip into the pool of the lament ocean, a climb to the mountain of forgotten sorrows.

O', my sorcerer-- or are you not?
The final hour has come again.
Until then, a kiss for my chagrin will justify my yearning.
And not one second, I won't miss that tulip smile of yours.

But my sorcerer-- or are you not?
Don't let the night succumbs you to the oblivion,
don't let the cold bites your warmth to bits, don't let the wasp seizes the sweet taste of your honey dew.
For this is neither a goodbye, nor a calling.

This I promise.

If you ever think of having it all, just remember that even the sun can't have the skies for herself.

They are just her crown for half-day.

She wanted to touch the thorns
and every living organism that would brought her to her knees,
subtle and dangerous; a gargantuan curiosity peaked and intervene;
affinity faded into something frivolous,
perspective flashing ruby before dawn broke.

she wanted risks,
and short-live melancholia for her far-fetched disappointment
when she found the magnolia had ceased to bloom
in an early spring,
and by Tuesday
she had forgotten her name purposefully,
a woman's folly always bound to be questioned anyhow.

'twas the beginning of her decadence, one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five,
a withered English rose that lovers wouldn't infatuate,
nor they would let her stay at their den.
a stunner devoid of attention;
a story abound of illusion,
unmeasured;
but a gaze in her eyes,
I melt.

never had I seen a creature so free,
never had I seen a curve of smile preened,
and swathed with such glory.

free;
or so as I believe.

free.

you bewitched me
in all your wicked youth,
night-blooming lover with lips
curved like the moon.
we shiver,
tremble.
you shatter all my mirrors.
i shall love you like none other.

during my perfume obsession years,
your scent stung
not like a bee,
but a memory of her cherry-tinged lipstick on your collar.

desire on the precipice of morphing into the stink of a disappointment.
you're the hurricane inside my stomach-- and is this what it feels like?
not a heartbreak, rather
a collapse of an *****.
is this what it feels like?

ocean, childlike eyes,
dreaming of a thirty nine-year old love song
with wine and roman antiques
in her boudoir.

her mouth tastes like salt
her cheeks, corroded,
russian red smeared on her chin like matisse's red studio.
twelve past ten.
she can't do this anymore.
a royal mess in blue velvet.
this is why you should always keep your heart in a cage
and secure its key from thieves
and heartbreak hotel managers.

because losing him dims all the lights,
losing him is like burning alexandria to the ground,
losing him tastes like an outdated blancmange.
her achilles' ****** heel.
and she can't lift her feet to move on.