Do you believe in soulmates?
it is indeed cliche and overused
but i do
i do believe in the miracle of falling in love
each of us are destined to be with someone
someone who brings sunshine
when your days are rainy
someone who gives you hope
when you're out of faith
someone who holds your hand
when your ride is bumpy
your soulmate is your other half
they might be thrown across the world
they might also be living next door
how will you know who your soulmates is?
you see, some say you don't
one day you just take the jump
and wait till fate catches
have you ever met someone for the first time
but your heart feels as if you’ve met them before?
the moment you meet someone
that capital S someone
you'll feel an inexplicable attraction to that person
your souls are drawn to each other
that's the thing about love
logic can never do the math
there is someone, somewhere out there
who you can just love and love
no matter how tough the journey is
no matter how constant the drift-aparts are
you will always find your way
back to each other
All the times I've said,
"I love you",
all of them were lies.
Cruel fate denied me that one.
So I roam the vast crowds,
wading through soulmates,
and all the passion in the air.
I roam alone.
It's amazing how life changes
when love is no longer in the picture.
Nothing matters, you feel empty,
you feel lonely.
But not just any lonely.
My soul is only lingering here,
for there is no one to tie it to me.
It doesn’t make much sense that I love you. I’m so wrong for you, and you so right for me. I guess it does make sense. But you don’t love me so don’t feel bad. It’s okay, I understand. I’m not a high class, well-educated girl. I feel like you need someone more like my sister, not hot-mess me. I never match, I’m always late, my hair is always frizzy, I can’t dress myself nice, I love you. I fucking love you. Why can’t it be that simple? Why can’t it just be
I love you
I love you too
I love you more
I love you
I love you. So completely. So needy. Truer than blue. You’re just
And I love you.
Your eyes. Your smile. Your laugh. The way you talk with your hands. And slur Italian so sexy. Your arms. Your muscles. Your skin. Your sweat. Your spit. Your feet. Your chest. Your strut, hips swaying. Your hips, those hip bones. My mouth is watering. I want you.
I love your anger. I love your jealousy. I love your stubbornness. I love your cockiness. Your cock, too.
I love your hangovers. I love your attitude problem, the way you talk down to me and ruffle my hair. And tease me and talk to me and you don’t love me.
And it breaks me so violently, snaps every single one of my ribs, one at a time.
Crack. Crack. Crrrrrackkk-kah.
It hurts me. It will kill me. But it’s so true. Because you are so completely and fully
You consume me, floodwaters breaking the gates in my mind, leaking into every cavern, swimming debris of you slicing my brain, shallow cuts bleeding into the blue.
You move me, an ocean untamed, your waves thrash against my sanity, turn switches all the way ON.
But you go through me, you don’t see me. You are this endless, perfect, vibrant, enormousity of sky and I am a bird, mesmerized by your beauty.
I’m not Old enough
To ever win you.
How is it possible for one person to make you feel so absolutely wonderful and absolutely awful at the same time? Even now I feel self-conscious writing these words, as if you are somehow perched behind me silently dotting i’s and crossing t’s. I wish I could be prettier about this.
I fucking love you.
And I can’t say a word. I’m afraid to inconvenience you. I don’t want to make you feel anything but bliss. Part of me wishes you could just feed off my rich, sweet, sticky love for you. And you could live forever. But part of me knows you don’t want to sip from my overflowing cup.
So I’ve sewn my mouth shut and fed you the key. I only hope you’ll reject it, throw up stinky bile all over me. It’s the only love from you I even deserve.
I love the way you touched my thigh. Your fingers just barely grazed it, as if sitting next to me was so natural you forgot I wasn’t a continuation of you. I only wish your lips had followed.
Sometimes I imagine myself getting drowned deranged drunk and spilling my thoughts all over you, a slimy shower of emotion you would rub all over that fucking chest and your heart would pound so loudly veins would rip. But then I snap back into reality when I bump into a pole.
You smell like Italy, summer, on the beach, with an ice cold fruity drink in my hand. White white teeth, smiling around an orange wedge.
Whenever we talk I secretly reread our conversations and overanalyze and morph and mold them into the perfect love. You and me. I think you are pounding at the door ten flights down screaming my name. But it’s just all the stupid drunk druggy college kids.
Am I a stupid drunk druggy college kid
I remember when you hit me in the foot with a door and I yelped “ow” and crouched to the ground. And you crouched down and said, “Are you okay?” But you looked right into me, into my muddy eyes, and you were
Soooooooooooo thisthisthisthisthisthis close to me.
And I got angry. And said, “Yeah, I’m fine, fuck, calm down.” Why did I do that?
I told you I have a bad memory. I don’t.
Have you ever lied to me?
I’ve been writing so much all I can smell is the tangy bitter smell of ink. And it’s sad that that’s the only sensation I’ll ever know when it comes to you.
Unless you want sex. And you might. I could give myself too, let you use this mint-condition waterbag shell. You could use me ‘till I wear down to bone and my organs look like rotten vegetables. But it would kill me faster.
I will be your prostitute. You can cheat on me and hate me. And chew my nails. Eat my skin. You already set me on fire. I’m just gonna burn out, anyway.
I want to look in the dictionary and write down every single word that belongs to you.
I want to write you suicide notes.
Every time I eat an apple, I think of the time you let me take a bite of your forbidden fruit. And you bit right on top of my saliva and teeth marks. Like nothing.
Because you are everything. And I am everything else, nothing.
Soulmates. So you say. Why do you tease me? You hang yourself right above me, a shiny, round, juicy, tender, tempting, sweet nectarine without a single bruise, just out of my reach.
I howl my rage at the moon every night, for tattooing your contagious inferno across my throbbing chest.
You make me cry. Did you know that? I cry into my pillow so it stifles my whimpers. I sound like a choking, sputtering, snot-filled dog. And I can never swim to the surface of the loneliness that is drowning me.
Sometimes, I just wanna fucking punch you. And knock all your teeth out. Stab you up the nose so the whole damn thing falls off in a gurgling, bubbling, bloody mess. Because
Well I don’t know
You make me mad
But that made me think of you dying and the jolt that just went through my body was so searing I pray you’re immortal.
And I never pray.
i love with all of me
or else it would
not make sense
you love someone
as a complete whole
or nothing at all
protect their heart
from any damage
don't break trust
give them faith
as well as hope
not a fan of falling
but for true love
i'd do anything
to keep you here
away from all
which haunt you
from past experiences
love is more than
feelings and soulmates
it's about finding
the second piece
of your heart
to make it
this is about letting myself be happy, about falling in love and forgetting the rest. doing this for myself because nobody else will, because nobody else can. because the nights won’t be lonely anymore with you there and there are some things that only happen once in your life and this is one of those things, you are one of those things. how extraordinary it is to even sit in the same room as you.
just no, god, really, you should know that you made the colors bleed out of my clothes and onto my floor when you wrapped your arms around me. or that if you rolled up my sleeves on my shirts pink roses would probably grow out from underneath. start from the veins in my arms and break out. gradually turning into stems. turning into flowers. i’d say the same for my legs but i’m weak at the knees, weak at the knees getting out of my car. take a deep breath and kiss him on the lips, close my eyes and put my hands on both sides of his face. do you remember how this felt? your eyes are shut do you remember? could you time travel from now to the first time this happened because i did. your eyes were shut then too just like this. you’re back, you’re back, you’re back. i can see you again. and when i’m back in the bed i handed over my heart in, would you know that i’m better now? that you never had to worry. this is better because we need it.
and we’ll go on a date to the movies late at night and i can rest my head on you the whole time while you hold my hand and let go only so i can move my fingers up and down the inside of your palm while it rests against your leg. let’s be the last to get up, sit in the dark with the credits so i can tell you how i feel about you just a little bit. tell you like i tried to tell the complete strangers who would sit at that table in that little diner in my town because i wrote your name on a window ledge. so when they look out at the cars, at the people, maybe they’d notice, maybe they’d know i needed them to know i was happy.
you make me feel is what you do, you bring back the constantly fading parts. you’re the one and if i had to explain the way you’re beautiful it’d probably be like the pocket watch necklace i found at a secondhand store the morning after you texted me. the battery is dead and the time is stuck with both the hands over the one roman numeral, and the lady who worked there said it’d need a new battery but it doesn’t need to be fixed for me to love it. you’re beautiful like when i hold your hand i want to know every line. i want to trace veins in your arms, i want to run my fingers over the back of your hands on the knuckles.
you’re a lot like when it rains at night when i’m in bed, and i just lay there instead of going to sleep and i miss nobody in particular but i just miss places, moments. it’s coming down so slow and gold cause the street light is shining on it. i’d want you there, could i hold your hand while we watch it and could you please try for a second to know that i feel that way about you.
you feel more like images than words, like my favorite sounds or like movies that changed my life, i’ll meet you in another life when we are both cats. there aren’t so many stars here. you’re beautiful like knowing they’re up there, anyways. you’re as beautiful for as sad as i get when clouds hide them. you’re as influential to me as my suicide attempt was, and i hope that makes sense because i mean it in the best way because it changed my whole life.
i can feel you changing my life when i got out of my car and walked up to your door it was like i knew right then you can’t go back from this, and it’s scary and it’s so hard to be alive again because i signed all the papers, i signed away everything it’s all gone it was boarded all up and forgotten, and you’re dusting everything, taking all the sheets on the furniture off, and tearing off the bad wallpaper. just let me in, let me try and i won’t go anywhere, i just want to live inside you almost. i just want to do what you’re doing for me for you too, you are so beautiful in ways i will never be able to tell you but god will i try.
i just wanna lay in your lousy arms, and feel real little. i feel little already but you can’t function in the world by being how you feel, but i want you to let me be what i feel and i just want that to be something that’s okay, and i hope you kiss it all away, all the parts that i pretend i am. could you draw in my hands with your finger and push down my fingers when they try to curl up, and could i stop you by holding your hand and kissing you on your neck, just soft, just really soft cause i’m really small and let me lay my head on your chest so i can tell you i can hear your heart beating, and it sounds a lot lamer in words here than when we’re there under your covers, than when i’m feeling like i just opened up your chest and climbed inside, cause it feels like you let me even if you didn’t let me. i just want to honestly believe for a few minutes that i don’t have to ever leave that moment, how we let ourselves believe anything like that i’ll never know but i want you to try because things would be better.
i was like a bird that flew out in front of your car in the morning that didn’t get hit, i was like a ghost but you picked me up, and your hands didn’t fall right through me. you picked me up and the way you said my name didn’t hurt. it’s like we were driving on the highway in the dark with our headlights off but we made it home. we made it home singing. these are the kinds of nights where you close your eyes and you feel like they’re never closed, i’m just staring at your beautiful fucking face with the glow of the tv on it. stuck in this memory with the right soundtrack. you were just smiling, and there i was becoming real, and i’ve been trying to tell you, you make me feel real. and everyone’s been telling me to stay away from you, but how could you love someone who never hurt you, who never made you prove how much you wanted it, how much you wanted them. you’re supposed to chase him, why didn’t you chase him?
i guess what i wanted more than anything was for you to see youself the way i saw you, to know that i love you in this bizarre unreal way where i don’t even know everything about you but i want to. and all i can feel is how closed these doors are. i find myself so desperate for any part of you, even the parts you gave no one because they aren’t important. no one watches for those kinds of things, the number of freckles on your arm or the way you squeeze my hand twice, but here i am in love with you, in love with your quirks, in love with how utterly human you are, how nobody appreciated the most appreciatable things about a person. this is all the b footage that i can’t stop watching, i am drowning in the parts everybody saw but nobody watched. that’s where i fell in love with you.
just oh my god, i really am so in love with you and everything makes so much sense when i’m with you, and that sounds so stupid and cliche but it really does, it makes sense because you’re my other half and it feels like i’m done making the pieces that never fit fit, your hands were really meant to hold mine, i think i really believe again in this childish way that i threw out months ago that soulmates are real, because you are mine in every sense of the word.
Folder: Soulmates II
Sweet, sweet fantasy embrace me with his shadow'
cover me with his moonlight passion
let me hear his whispers of love on the warm night wind
Let the light of his eyes twinkle deep in my heart
bring his soul kisses through space and time
bring us together in our immaculate love
let us each other once more find
and dissolve into a phantasm
as we leave our glittering traces of love
trailing across the heavens behind,
I had a date this past Sunday. As usual, it followed a series of brief
flirtations on DIA (dateinasia.com), an insipid internet dating
site that brings together the players and the played. It’s what the
filmmaker, Claude Lelouch, would call ‘Le chat et la souris’ — but
here the murder is more subtle – it’s a crime of the heart. What
is most memorable about the ‘date’ was not the famished woman
opposite me deepthroating the smoked duck, but rather how it
mirrored the last half-dozen such crash-and-burn encounters.
Like variations on a symphonic theme, my Bali dates progress
with the same theme and variation as Beethoven’s Fantasia in G
O.K., maybe I’m a sexaholic, a 40-something stud wannabe
seeking a woman my daughter’s age (or less) with whom I can
play ‘whose your daddy’/ hide the sausage/’look ma, no hands’.
Maybe, like effete royalty, I’ve a cultivated an underserved sense
of entitlement that, despite sporting a belly that doubles as a
Djembe at the local drum circle, insists that I am ‘entitled’ to a
skinny woman of not more than 40 kg (88 lbs. for the metrically
challenged). Honestly, I’ve had larger bowel-movements than
40 kg after an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. Let’s face it; petite
girls make your pathetic small penis assume humongous Jay-Z
proportions. If you can’t get Beyoncé we men lower our standards
to the sub-basement level and settle for Bouncé, the nearly high
school graduate who works at a real estate office/call center/
internet café/laundry and who doesn’t notice your hairy back and
receding hairline because she has her eyes on the prize: s-e-c-u-
r-i-t-y. Sure, her vacuous emails resemble SMS texting and her
SMSs resemble Newtonian formulae but at least she’s fluent in
Facebook where she spends most of her waking hours updating
her photos and status. Like a cyborg her right hand has merged
with her hand phone and she can text and thumblash her BFFs
at supersonic speeds. Yes, Bouncé’s got some awesome, kick-ass
We decide to meet at her favorite mall/fast food restaurant/
Starbucks. Sometimes we meet at a real restaurant with table
cloths and snooty gay waiters who were fired from Abercrombie
and Fitch for shoplifting. Here in her fantasy milieu (acting the
Queen) she’ll definitely order the imported steak/smoked duck/
whatever’s the most expensive thing on the menu. If fact, she
often doesn’t know what she’s getting because she orders by price
alone. ‘Are you sure you want that $200 bottle of Merlot? You
told me wine gives you a headache.’ On the bright side ordering an
expensive meal means she’ll most likely sleep with you. She just
wants some prepayment – a little tit for tat. She’s also testing the
waters to see if there’s any ‘sugar’ in the daddy. But I’m getting
ahead of myself. She’s not even here yet. I’ve nursed this Bintang
so long it’s wearing a cast and crutches.
Finally, she arrives—only 45 minutes/2 hours/a week late. Holy
fried bananas! She’s prettier/fatter/taller/fuglier/darker/older
than I expected (her pix must have been retrieved from a time
capsule – yeah girl, you were cute in high school in 1997) – but
what are expectations anyway but laying the groundwork for
future disappointments. Keep an open mind. Be a man! Whatever
doesn’t destroy you makes you seek refuge in Häagen-Dazs. Often
our white chocolate raspberry truffle is doused in an ocean of
cheap perfume – eau-de-knockoff – which triggers my allergy
to ‘cheap shit’. If the perfume is real it means her last boyfriend
bought it – an impulse item she snatched up when she pretended
to shop for an eyeliner pencil (for that Goth ‘Twilight’ look). If you
handed her your credit card for 5 seconds she would buy gum and
an iPhone. That’s why I keep plenty of gum in my pocket.
After some strategically timed compliments, nice hair/eyes/smile/
dress/perfume, the food arrives and she starts multitasking –
eating and talking drivel simultaneously. I have developed the
smile and filter technique to an art, pretending I’m listening while
fantasizing about various Kama Sutra positions. I stare at her over
glossed lips. Here comes the litany of complaints, the food still
sloshing in her mouth: my boring job/I hate my boss he’s a jerk/
my friend got a job on a cruise ship/do I have a job for her? She
stuffs more food in her mouth: I love my family/I want you to
love my family/I want my family to love you/I want you to make
love to my family/my young sister needs money for school/my
other brother applied for a job on a cruise ship/do I have a cruise
ship? At last, the final mastication before desert (she ordered
two because she couldn’t decide which one she wanted – ‘so let’s
share’): I want 2 kids/I hope they have blonde hair and blue eyes
like my friend’s kids/she married a bule and moved to Australia/
I want a big house with a swimming pool/I don’t know how to
swim/I want a cruise ship. Of course, the ‘I wanna’ list is much
longer if the girl is from Bandung or Manado. And those pro-
golddiggers seeking soulmates usually get what they really want
– by the third husband. It inspired Kanye West to write these
Apparently there is no shortage of Bandung and Manado girls
trawling Kanye’s ‘hood’ with their booties.
After three/five/seven seconds/minutes you’re convinced Bouncé
is dumber than a bag full of hammers/into Oprah/has more
self-help books than the Library of Congress/her favorite work
of literature is Harry Potter/desperate to marry a bule (doesn’t
matter if he’s older than her grandpa). There is some common
ground here because I too am desperate — desperate to get laid.
It’s been a while. With me it’s either feast or famine. She’s orders
another Es Campur/Bali Moon/Pluto Punch/Sex on the Beach/
Screaming Orgasm/Arak Attack. In fact she orders all of them
(‘so let’s share’). Oh, shit, she has that twinkle in her eye, the one
that says, ‘what are we doing next’? She saw me open my wallet
to pay the bill and glimpsed my sexy ‘six pack’: Visa, Mastercard,
American Express, Discover, Diners and Carte Blanche. This girl’s
now stuck on me – like the one in Push Stars’ clingy lyrics:
Maybe it’s time to make my move. She’s bored me to tears but
instead I say/I had a great time/you’re not just beautiful you’re
smart (yeah, like a toaster)/I’d love to meet your family one day
(can’t have too many gardeners on my estate)/your (retarded)
brother and I would get along well (if I use him for fishing bait)
/I hope you get that job on a cruise ship/I want you to see my
beautiful villa in Ubud (stealthily moving in for the kill). She
shakes my hand and offers me her cheek. I grab by the nape of her
neck and kiss her passionately on the lips (gotcha!). Let’s get out
of here and go to Ubud for a drink/desert/coffee/rough sex/lite
BDSM/watch Gunung Agung erupt (like you will shortly).
I’m not that kind of girl (oh yes you are)/I want a man to respect
me (as you giveth so shall ye receiveth)/tell your driver to stop
at my place so I can pick up a few things (no doubt, more cheap
perfume and a change of panties).
‘Hey, look at this million dollar view’ (from my bedroom in Ubud).
Should I use a condom/maybe she has AIDs/maybe has more
crabs than a seafood stall at Jimbaran/oh God, maybe she’ll want
to go shopping for a new handphone/should I hide my wallet?
But by now I’m thinking with the little head, not the big one
(unless your Jay-Z).
Bouncé’s breast are not as big and firm as they appeared in the
push-up bra. They’re a bit small and bouncy. That’s O.K. I’ve
noticed age takes its toll even on twenty-somethings with stretch
marks and cellulite dimpling their asses. We kiss again and
have another go at it, this time inspired by Captain & Tennile’s
‘I had a great time’ (even though I did all the work). In Indonesia
you usually don’t get oral sex on the first date (unless she’s
had several bule boyfriends). I’ll call you/SMS/Facebook you.
I have my driver take her back to Denpasar/Kuta/Seminyak to
her miserable one room apartment in a boarding house she shares
with a roommate. No hot water; the bathroom is just down the
I return to my empty villa, brew a cup of Java and start scanning
new profiles on DIA. Please don’t think of me as a ‘sexual predator.
Maybe I’m just frustrated that I can’t even remotely find the right
woman here. So, if I can’t find a soulmate in Bali at least I can find
some consolation in the music of conquering this vast archipelago –
one pretty girl at a time.
For related pieces please see:
M:I-24 - Ass Protocol: Seducing an Indonesian Girl in 24 Hours (Events Unfold in Real Time)
Stereotyping Indonesian Women
My Uh-Oh Moment in Romancing the Gecko
The Bitch Parade: 7 Indonesian Girls I’ve Slept With (but who’s keeping count…)
M:I-24 - Ass Protocol: Seducing an Indonesian Girl in 24 Hours (Events Unfold in Real Time)
My Uh-Oh Moment in Romancing the Gecko
Fear, Loathing and Dating in Bali: My last 6 Dates
I wish to disambiguate
to explicate; expanciate:
I do not begrudge polyamory,
and whatever Love entails
to any particular person,
for I once was polyamorous;
I understand some of the ways
in which polyamory can work.
Usually when single,
or otherwise in an open relationship.
I also do not begrudge sluttiness;
everyone needs some
and some can't resist.
Besides, it is noble
to work such charity.
Who am I,
who once sought such charity,
to demonize it?
who have lusts
take grievous offense
to One in a relationship
who tells their partner
instead of agreeing to end
the monogamous relationship,
goes and sleeps around
and cheats on their "soulmate",
moreover if over and over.
It's hard to cope with such deep hurt,
and I wish to convey my apologies
for my rash hybridized expressions
of Anger, Frustration and Hubris.
Perhaps it perturbs me so
simply because it reminds me
of who I once could be and was.
Perhaps it irks me so
because I'm envious.
Polyamory is not a Sin;
but before you just go fuck someone
at least be single or in an open relationship;
it isn't only you
who is affected
by your choices,
and I know
that's hard to see
when you are so young.
Don't hold back
who you really are,
don't cheat others
in the process.
Not only is Karma a bitch,
but so can Retribution be;
you never know
the next time
you cheat someone
they may not fall back
on mere words;
A few more years
in this World
may teach you
that such Anarchy
doth go both ways,
Vigilante Justice knows few bounds:
Don't take too many chances
when it comes to who you fuck, nor
when it comes to who you fuck over.
"there’s no easy way to say this, so i’ll just say it – i met someone. it was an accident, i wasn’t looking for it. it was a perfect storm, she said one thing, i said another. next thing i knew i wanted to spend the rest of my life in the middle of that conversation.”
you’ve tried everything, but you wont give up.
your feelings are crushed hard by love.
love, don’t give up.
you gave enough, but every time you get slapped by disappointments hand.
you’re stuck between calling him a stranger or another girl’s man.
i was told never to mess with broken hearts.
your young heart is tired of late night fights and holding onto tight ropes just to survive. your young heart doesn’t feel alive. its weighed down by words of regret. and heavy tears that run down from your bed to the cold floor.
an ocean of hate surrounds you. dark clouds of emotion hold you. just hold on to my heart.
you’ve tried everything, and you still don’t feel loved. he left you with scars, and tears on your pillow.
i’ve tried everything, just to get back your happiness. you’ve tried everything for love, i’ve tried everything for love.
what won’t we do for love?
your eyes say a lot. your personality shows a lot. your words explain everything.
& you’re tired of morning notes.
and you already know, that you have to leave it all behind. its time to go.
you couldn’t stomach the thought of him with another. but he is with another.
thoughts of a coward come up when you think that he wasn’t man enough
to tell you he wants to break up.
i’ve always loved you.
here’s a little note:
remember the first time we met.
soulmates we called each other.
you were my forever.
i hope one day love decides to get us back together.
i was your forever. you were my forever.
i hope love remembers our times together.
we were suckers for love. what won’t we do for love?
do for love. you’ve tried everything, but you don’t give up.
**credit goes to Tupac. this was Shakur inspired.
A stranger with a face
just like my own
Drifting along the edge of the world
calling out to silence for a lover
the world's mist will not answer your call boy
our souls will soon meet halfway
and we shall now
We are meant to