*Describe the color purple without using the word.
It is the color of his shirt at 5 in the afternoon, reflecting the hues of the inked skies with its highlights and shadows. He loved wearing it because it symbolizes the color of your first conversation, calm yet ready. It is the color of the ground underneath the both of you, uncertain yet just right. It is the color of his eyes, dark and at the same time heavy, like lead. You look right through it and see the piercing gaze of a person with a huge heart, yet all at the same time afraid. It is the feeling of his hands holding yours tightly until it becomes a faint bruise. It suddenly becomes too much to handle and you’re left in agonizing pain as the world suddenly stops.
It is the color of his skin, bombarded with bruises that he has hidden for so long from you—bruises from his past that he decided not to show, fearful that if you saw it, you would let go. But you don’t. Instead, you embrace the colors of its marks, determined to stay still and steady. It is the color of his words, unsure of the next to come. It is the color of his neck as your lips dance along to his body, fearless and reckless. It is the pulse of his heart as you listen intently, knowing well enough that it syncs perfectly to the sound of the pulse your heart makes. It is the color of the wind, ready to engulf you along with it.
And finally, it is the sound of his voice, scarred and wounded but never backing down. It is the color of the signs he continuously manifests, in hopes that they will reach out to you. Yet it never does. Instead, you translate his colors to a romantic manner, instead of an uncertain, friendly gesture. You are mistaken of his colors, blindly allowing yourself to be engulfed in a world of fallacy. You are unaware but it is the color of fabricated lies, bound to pierce your heart like the color of sharp knives ready to go through. It is suddenly not his colors anymore, but rather, the colors of what he once was.
MCS
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 4:51 AM UTC
"i'm okay," she says to everyone.
her nights were nothing but wet sheets and wailing walls.
"i'm fine," she tells everybody.
her room is filled with nothing but a crying voice and a hopeless soul.
"i'm happy," she proclaims to all.
her wrists more crimson than brown and her eyes more red than white.
"goodbye. i'm sorry," she begs.
And that was when all knew that she wasn't really okay at all.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
I often get asked why I never ran after you when you left, and I always answer the same thing:
The moment I look at your eyes deeply, yours were already locked with someone else's.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 5:43 AM UTC
She was a form of art,
for him that would be true;
hung in places like his heart,
so all could see and view.
She was like no other,
for him she's all that mattered,
her beauty too precious to cover
and hide; to flaunt, she'd rather.
She was his favorite color,
for him, a vibrant yellow hue,
an orange, a blue, and more;
that's what he loved for sure.
She was his favorite song,
for him a sweet singsong tune,
where his world could be forever long;
enticing was her rune.
Sadly, that was what all she was
for him, she cannot be with,
a love that's never meant to last—
a poisonous bitter seed.
————————-————————
*"You loved me, right?" She asked him.
"That's all I ever did."*
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
It has always been about definitions. You can try and
search basically anything now and it will always prove that
meanings exist already. As if it had to always be generic for
everyone. Something that all should understand and observe.
You asked me what love is. I didn't know what to say,
mainly because there were a lot of things already made up
about this word that could only ever go as far as being both a
common thing and something rare. And that was when it hit me;
love is a subjective thing, just like how everything should be. I
know that there are already these given definitions, meanings,
and information but somehow, it always goes down to perspective.
It's always about what you see that others may not, and feel what
others don't. It's about how you see it and how you feel it.
You tried asking it again. That was when I finally knew.
Love is talking at three in the morning, or texting at three p.m.
Love is being in someone's arms closely, just there to remember
how their scent smells like, or how their breath feels, or how
their heart beats, or how their hands intertwined with yours make
you feel the safest that you are. Love is being with someone you
see as perfect—*I know perfect is subjective, and that was
why you were my kind of perfect, because you were just the right
touch of my favored insanity*—and being happy with the thought
of it. Love is asking someone if they are okay, or if they got home
safely, or if there is something bothering them. Love is being able
to care for someone without forgetting to care for yourself. But
most of all, Love is someone you can call home.
And so when you asked what love was for me, I could
only muster the word you.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 7:07 AM UTC
**it's in dark rooms and isolated spaces
do i find serenity and peace.**
*it's in the creases of your soft hands
do i find security.*
**it's in corners filled with shadows
where happiness exists.**
*it's in the touch of your red-stained lips
where hope lies fully.*
**it's in staring at pitch-black ceilings
do i feel a broken-hearted 's disease.**
*it's in your opaque eyes the color of storms
do i feel the calmness of a sea.*
**it's in me and my fondness of darkness
where love kind of is.**
*it's in you and your fondness of brightness
where i can never be.*
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
Loving is inevitable.
Yet somehow, people say that love is a choice. You can choose to love or
not love somebody. I never wanted to, but I did. Loving you was not my choice—
not mine to begin with. But I did. I love how your calloused fingers, all beaten
up because of your love for paintbrushes and canvases, held mine tightly and
intertwined with them; dancing along with mine, which smelled like the enticing scent
of old, wrinkling books due to my love for reading. I love how your eyes are
lighter in color, more radiant and distinct than anybody else's. I love that scar of
yours placed just atop your crescent-shaped eyes. I love the way your crooked
teeth is still perfectly misaligned; not too much and not too little. I love how
your breath brushed against mine, smelling of nothing but you. I love how you
make yourself be like you and you alone. And I know that art is never supposed to
look beautiful, and that art is supposed to make you feel something, and that
you are. It's not my choice to begin with, but I did. Loving you was beyond my control.
Letting go isn't.
To let go of someone is a choice you can make. You can't let skies, or stars,
or moons, or signs to tell you when it has to happen. You either let go and free
someone, or cling onto someone you know will eventually get hurt or hurt you.
Letting go is something you can grasp onto with your fingertips and decide upon.
It is the fact that you have to let a part of you stray away that makes it hard to
do so, because loving you made me take a part of myself just so I could make
you feel as if you were mine and I was yours. Because once a part of you is given
to someone, you never truly get it back. It stays with them, long after you've
both moved on and fell apart. It sticks with their souls, reminding them of what
you two have had and have been. Once. I could've chosen to not let you go, but I
did, because we never should've been together in the first place—*ironic how first
place even appeared here, because we both knew I never was*—for a second. Letting
go of you was my choice. It always has been to begin with.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
— Somehow facing,
never crossing.
"It's hard to stop from going further."
— Lovers looking,
not once meeting.
"Maybe we are, maybe we aren't."
— Eyes twinkling,
smiles retreating.
"God, you are beautiful."
— Time comes passing,
feelings leaving.
"I'm truly sorry."
— Hopelessly craving,
a love that's dying.
"We're never meant together."
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
Leave me, so I can make myself forget about you.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
"There's something about traveling to places, you know," you said.
You just got back from some country in the East to celebrate New Years
with relatives from home. You were two days too late, due to a delayed
flight you complained so much about as soon as you landed. You hugged
me, I pecked you on the cheek, and then we sat down.
"It's the culture, the diversity of each place, and oh God," you continued.
"The languages—I've learned so many different words—that's what I love
most!"
You rambled on and on all throughout as the night went on, stopping in
between stories to swallow the food you took in and drink the beverages
you ordered. I smiled and laughed as you went on with your experiences
while you were away.
The time read 12:06 in the morning, but that didn't stop you from talking
eight months worth of stories since you left. Eventually, you did stop, and
that's when I realized how long I smiled as I stared at you. Your eyes, and
how they shine a streak of gold because of the chandelier atop our table.
You looked beautiful that night, the same way you did during the time
when we stayed out late at night to look at the stars and watch them disappear
as the sun rises. Well, you looked at the stars and anticipated the sunrise;
I looked at you then.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" you ask and then you followed it with
a chuckle, and I was reverted back to reality. You smiled at me (God knows how
long, and how I didn't want it to stop), but moments later, your radiant smile
turned to a frown I was hoping I never had to see. You wiped your lips, stood up,
and got your things.
You looked at me with your eyes, the same eyes that closed and turned away back
then; the same eyes that decided to leave.
"It's never going to happen again," you shook your head. "I'm sorry."
And then you left.
—————————————————————————————————
I followed her outside, called out for her name, and then took her hand. She turned
and looked at me, and that was when I knew I was ******* as soon as I decided to
tell her what I wanted to say ever since she came back.
"You learned a lot of different and new words, but you never learned to say I love you back."
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC