It was either you or no one,
When i took the risk,
When i made it clear I wanted it to be you,

It was either you or no one,
When you marked the list,
And you made me feel like a 100 flattering roses

And I wanted it to be you,
But the universe said we werent meant,
And I had to continue to flow alone

And thus she went
Leaving behind her the many kind words
And lingering hopes that make all good things seamless,
But which fade like her perfume in places she slept.

When I saw her face disappear
Behind mirroring train reflections
I saw those who stared when we waved
Caught in the crossfire of our connection.

They should know, as all should, how
Our iron-clad love is feather armour
Marking a true knight of the cloth
The world's spasms worn about our backs with many gold brooches.

Such it is to be anointed, to filter all out
With your inestimable standards
Held high for those to see
How much she loves me.

drag my helpless body down the hallway
where it is dark and hidden from everyone,
a place too eerie that ghosts yearn to dwell and linger
—my purpose is quite the same after all.

compelled to conceal myself in the shadows,
sublimating to an unnoticeable presence
like speck of dust upon a quaint furniture
that no matter how meticulous and kind
the hands that care for me,
i cannot be wiped clean.

a miniscule of being that i am
only has a slight chance to be found.
to be known.

my skin was off
the first time i met you and
you saw how ugly it was to be me.
even if i looked frightening,
your face remained static—you wore the kind of skin
that reminded me of the most calm and quiet period
of the night where i can just be myself.
there, i could wear any skin i want
to hide,
to be happy,
to be at peace
or perhaps i wear them at random
just so i can feel something.

you stood there and perceived me
beyond this paper skin as if my ugliness
was something that can be erased.
but just like every skin
that is hanging inside my closet,
every single one of them is threaded
with some sort of deficiency
and each time i wear them,

     i light myself on fire
     because i like watching myself burn.
     slowly, you walked towards me to warm yourself.

i have tiny jars that are shelved
perfectly inside my brain
from category a to z,
sorted by themes,
and from one to a hundred
—a scale of how painful
life is in my repetitive experience.

i keep all my memories sealed
like a handful of fireflies shoved in a jar
that only live for three days;
i may forget every scenario with ease
but never the dying flicker—the feeling
that grow dim in each canister.

god, how fragile am i that it only takes
a trigger for each glass to combust tragically,
good thing i'm the only one
who knows how to pull it.
     i wonder which repressed emotions
     are going to choke me violently tonight.

as i walk with nothing but the feeling of my heart
grasped achingly by my ribcages,
i grieve for my future self;
this is a habit i cannot break.
like a sacred ritual
i commence a solemn ceremony
to mourn for the unknown half and
to mourn for myself, a loveless poet.
     will i spare someone all the love
     that i tend in my backyard?
     the garden of all my poems,
     the garden of all my words.
but, what kind of poet am i
if all the love i write is mused by utter loneliness,
soiled underneath the pretty field?
resting in peace in a worm casted ground.
oh, i cannot wait to see
how my garden will bloom
once you enter it.
how your presence will soften the soil
and i will welcome you fondly as you earthen close.
     but please know that rain
     did not water every thing here,
     this love grew because my heart has yearned
     a lifetime to be understood.to be known.
     you were once a figment of all my hurt,
     a muse shaped like a blur that i begged to seek me.
i guess our hearts naturally just ache to be loved
that we yearn for beautiful things
right after killing them with our very own hands.
still, i remain as gentle as i am now
because i mourned,
    and mourned,
      and mourned...
       for someone like you.
a flicker that was absent for god knows
how many lightyears away we were to each other,
that we couldn't hold hands no matter how
interlocked our hearts were at recognizing everything we feel.
so forgive me if i mourn for you by and by
—your beauty is closest to the moon after all,
tell me, how can i not long for you forever?

i crave for loneliness to brush my hair,
mother me tenderly to sleep
as you did when i had carvings
on my left wrist at twelve years old
—a braille i fondled with every day,
                   i. don't want. to be. here.

somehow, my nightly hiccups
never drove me to my end.
i am still gentle because
you follow me wherever i go;
visiting me at the right moments
especially when i am accompanied
by my own ***** and the cold bathroom floor—
          and then you stay quiet the whole hour
          to give me some time to grieve.

i wear you like a protective charm now,
for you are the only love i've ever known.

in your absence
i immersed myself in sadness,
for there was nothing left to love
in the remaining pieces of you
that was too blurry for me
to comprehend in the first place.
    was it really you?
because i felt too many heartaches
trying to filter your name in my palms
—you made me figure out
so many things on my own
as if this kind of mystery
will compel me to draw closer to you.

but i, too, am human
i grow weary of repetitive things
that remain obscure,
just like how your name
sounded sweet every time—
     only for it to mean nothing to me.

like ***** laundry, my sadness
pile on top of one another,
and now i am grieving
because your name sounds like a metal
being dragged on the ground
—a heaviness that keeps
tugging my heart wide open.

there is no more room for you here,
my love for you has finally died.

i think i exist only to love
but never experience,
a pretentious bag of bones like me
will only stir your feelings
     —you will wallow in it for some time
     and then you will forget about me
like a cup of coffee that has gone cold.

but if i must admit,
it's because i do stunt my own growth:
in life, in love, but strangely enough,
                                           not in death.
an odd number of reasons
aid my tendencies;
they get glued together to form
a paper-maché of well-composed farewells
—a craft i have mastered in my years of longing.

i think i exist only to love,
but never experience—
yet here i am, still longing
until i get a hand to hold.

i like the way i make you go soft,
when i touch you like a friend
and your hands start to sweat
as if my fingers brushed your lips.
when your eyes hold my gaze
and you look at me lovingly,
even if our faces
never met each other's warmth.
            not even once.
tell me, how do i make you go hard?
because it seems that you only kiss people
who makes your body quiver.
     you only want to love
      when they give you a certain pulse
—but didn't i make your heart beat more faster
when i poured the gravity of my heart
to satisfy yours?