we are not the
nicholas sparks novel
read wrapped in comfort
of store-bought quilts
on rainy days

or an ed sheeran song
in long-haul flights
flying us
into one another's
longing embrace
once in
a blue moon

how long will
the movie screens
and best-selling novels
continue to
romanticise a
love like
ours
all of its
torturous;
troubling;
tragic glory

even with dreams
of your laugh
and the most short-lived
imageries of your crescent eyes
the sheets on your side
of the bed remain
perfectly
uncreased
i cannot stop
my heavy lids
and tired bones
from gravitating into
both Arcadia
and Erebus:
another
sweet,
wicked
dream
of
**you.

i fell asleep
to your ticking bomb
of a heart
as you run your
cold metal rings
and weak skinny hands
through my hair
drenched with midsummer rain
you warm me with
whispers of
sweet nothings
empty promises of
happy endings
and a summer home
on top of a hill
you ever so lovingly
inject my veins
with a surge of life
enveloping my flesh
heat of your being

in my dream
the bitter cold air
contrast
the undying sparks
your skin against mine
enclosed by the safety of
four sand colored walls
thirteen feet tall
and wordless exchanges of
our favourite
three-word sentence
my now empty shell
is bound to crack
the moment i look
into your eyes
my trembling hand
intertwined with yours
i silently scream
my desperate pleas

to God
who is ever so lightly
loaning you borrowed time
when angels only deserve
tomorrows made certain
eternity pronounced
forever promised
the ticking clock
a sound i came to hate
as it serves as
our sailboat
drifting us
away to
withering magnolias
trees becoming bare
on sad empty boulevards
as winter called
upon growing fear of
taking one last breath
and not taking one
at all

my consciousness struck
a runaway train
found its way to my
winding track of a mind
my head still
soundly pressed against
your ticking time bomb of a heart
the ballad of our approaching farewell
its coda drawing near
it brings me to my knees
how a dying soul
can make me feel
so **** alive

the foolish thing about me is that
even in the most starless of nights
i swear i see your face in the sky
thin contrails define the contours of
your face and the faint luster of
the quarter-moon is
your sirenic beam
illuminating

my lonely castles in the air
this solitary heart of mine
can't bear to scatter the stones
for my feeble soul will only gather
each and every last one splintered
my fingertips under your vicious spell
like in a catalepsy i cannot depart will build
myriad statues; columns of tributes chastely paid

down to your fangs crooked, eyes black,
hair crimson gossamer, $2 acid green leather shoes
and cigarette fixed between ghastly ripe lips
uttered infinite slanders and sins then
the swan song sang way too soon
i am tethered to your morbid grandeur
prisoned by your hard-bitten disposition
such enticing torment i revel in