In the dark
The english roses
Number the stars
//
The infinite sea
(Of) the other normals
Falling into place
//
After we fell
Fifty shades darker
Ten tiny breaths
Four seconds to lose
//
On such a full sea
The echo maker
Decoded
The narrow road to the deep north
//
Farther away
Legends of literature
(Made) memories
(And) collected poems
//
The little prince
Burned
The beast
The year I met you
//
One hundred names
The ten-year nap
This is my life
//
Save me
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 5:38 AM UTC
Of all the people I’ve kissed, she was my favorite.
The first time we tried to kiss, it took us exactly 4 minutes before my lips landed on her teeth. We laughed for 5 seconds, immediately retreating to the 2-inch distance between our nostrils. That 20-second courage was all it took before I regretted ever giving away my first kiss to someone I barely knew. She didn’t flinch the second time I kissed her forehead, but she did let out the longest sigh I’ve heard in my life. When her hands reached for my neck, I knew we are losing ourselves in the moment and I had no plan of ever stopping. She was not the brick, she was not the window pane. That night, she was the universe. It was all skin, clothes, skin, skin, and mostly soul.
I wasn’t used to her scent sleeping next to me. I wasn’t used to her legs all tangled in mine. I couldn’t possibly sleep. But soon enough I understood – sleep wasn’t the most important thing in the world. It was losing sleep over late night conversations, confessions, and honesty hours. It was her talking about her passion too much she starts apologizing. It was trying to figure out our next step. It was the journey to discovering you piece by piece. It was never just about proximity. It was kissing her all night until her lower lip bled the sunrise. It was kissing her until her breath loses its rhythm. It was kissing her until the tears turned into pleas of “Don’t ever stop kissing me.” It was kissing her until someone knocks on the door. It was kissing her until all her fears hid under the bed again. It was kissing her until all my monsters settled in beside her ghosts.
It was kissing her.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 3:43 AM UTC
You spill food all over you whenever we go on dinner dates.
You squint your eyes when you have been wearing your contacts for too long already.
You trip on surfaces that are obviously flat.
You drink juice that is way too sour for my tongue.
You like your water warm. Or lukewarm. Nope, you like it warm.
You think your works of art are not good enough.
You snore sometimes. Well, once.
You say “sorry” even when I say don’t apologize.
You can sleep at any given time, anywhere.
You love oatmeal with a burning passion.
You’re picky.
You do not like anything that is mainstream.
You get nervous a lot.
How can you call them flaws if I’m in love with them?
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Imagine seeing me one day after 15 years of not talking to each other. It will be on a local coffee shop where they have the best matcha drink one can ever dream of. You are sitting on the farthest end of the room, with an art book in hand; earphones blasting indie electronic songs you have been listening to u purposely use earphones to let people leave you alone. You dive in the world of art. Breathing heavily, you gasp for some air. You lift your head up to take a sip of your drink, and right when you’re ready to read again, you get distracted of a familiar voice.
I’ll be wearing jeans and my favorite A Rocket to the Moon shirt I got from their last concert. Earphones blasting their songs. A book in my hand, a pen and some paper. You smile upon hearing I got the same drink as you, watch me sat down on the corner, immediately opening my book (carefully).
You will watch me for some time and realize it’s just creepy so you gather up all your things and your courage, come up to me and say hi. But you stop and settle in the table next to me. I see you and tears water my eyes. You choke on your bagel. I stand up, sit next to you and say hi. You see the book I’m reading. It’s your favorite Dr. Seuss book. You will give me a look and I’ll start laughing. I will try to stop to tell you “I told you I read one page everyday.”
After that conversation, we will stay in touch. Not just in words but with actions. We will rekindle the love I believe never died. It will be a rocky adventure, but we will make it. We will go on roadtrips, blasting old Passion Pit songs. We will fulfil every promise we made when we were still in college. We will visit every island there is to explore. We will travel. Together. We will grow.
One day, I will wake up with the smell of pancakes you’re cooking for me. I will eagerly get up, shower you with kisses before I brush my teeth, and ask you if we have orange juice for breakfast. You will laugh (oh, that heavenly sound) and kiss me, saying, “You never liked orange juice. That is not welcome in our home.” I will pull you close and tell you, “You called it home, not house. That’s something.”
Soon enough, I will see you with our four-year-old wearing a unicorn onesie like yours, reading to her the Dr. Seuss book you gave me when we started our pause. You will fall asleep faster than she does, she will try to wake you up, I will stop her. I will tuck her in and carry you back to our room. I will watch you, and try to wake you. You will snore for a second, pull me in and tell me it’s time for bed.
I will whisper words before cuddling you to sleep again: “It was a rocky start, love, but I want to believe that it will get better. I’m going to make sure I’ll still be there to see it. I actually am seeing it now. If one draws attention to our cracks, they will just see colors that glued this wonderful piece together. We started with hickeys and matching shirts, let us end up with a shared surname. Can I just end with this note: Loving you feels very close to flying. Tomorrow I will ask you to marry me, I hope you say you will.”
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
What if we let this love die and let it combust? Let it burn our souls and make the universe weep. What if we turn into dust? What if the love we thought was made from longing and craving becomes uneasy? I am terrified of all the possibilities.
I'm afraid for the person I will love after you. She will have to get used to my Freudian slips of your name on romantic dinner dates. She will read hints of you on my sad poems, even the happy ones I will write for her will carry your weight. She will cry the first night we make love, because the way I hold her will never be as perfect. She will sleep with a heavy heart knowing that the next day, she has to face your ghost again. She will wear my sweaters, your scent lingering on each thread stitching them together. She will deal with all my mess. She will answer all of my 2 am drunk calls. She will let me be drunk until I recover from you, she wishes. She will laugh a lot, I will make her laugh, yes, but not smile - her smiles will always be half-hearted. She will read books on my shelves; see your love letters tucked in ever so carefully in between the pages we both loved.
She will choke on the dust of our firsts and maybe have tears of joy because of our lasts. She will love versions of me I created after this destroyed me to my core. She will never know my childhood. She will try to take me in her arms when I relapse. She will carry my broken pieces, try to put them back together, and will just end up being broken, too. She will let me have the window seat. She will surprise me but will never get the same chest pains I had with you. She will take me to bridges, tunnels, buildings, and maybe supermarkets. She will just be the stop along the way because you will always be the destination. She will welcome me home with a hug, I might let out a sigh and a smile. She will settle for that because she knows you will always be my home.
She will go to museums with me just to see my eyes water with pride again. She will let me write about you, just so I can empty myself of the words I have kept for you, if ever you decided to come back. She will listen to playlists I made just to **** your voice in my head. She will try to fit my needs. She will let me cry, and tell her stories about you. It will break her but she will let me. She will try to replace you. She will try. Every single day. She will fail. Every single time.
It will be the worst. It will be unfair. It will be my 3 am regret while I shower with her, trying to scrub away the last time we did that together. It will be running away. It will be my destruction.
I am afraid for the person I will (try to) love after you.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 6:00 AM UTC
I have a theory.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Being fragile to the core that it shakes you to your bones. Being weak and standing up on your own just scares the hell out of you. Despite all these, you try to keep the one thing that keeps your weaknesses intact and in one place. It is hidden inside their throats and at the palm of their hands, at their neck and behind their ears. It is sitting in their lungs, begging for escape but longing for the hold. Flaunt and retire. Flaunt and retire.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. You started unbuttoning my ribs around you. Watched me try to untangle myself from your subtle embrace. Exposed my weakness, my fragile strings wrapped on your pinky finger, ready to release, ready to detonate. I unzipped your thighs wrapped around my waist. You left me alone with your scent. Watch me try to scrub away the heat you leave on my skin. See the buttons slowly falling on the bed we shared.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How I want to destroy anything that dared touch me and took a piece of my lonely. It is about open palms giving vague dislike. It is a table for two but only an empty seat stares at your eyes. It is feeling the awkward breaking that is within your fingertips but never seemed to be enough for preparing you for the fall. You finally wake up choosing to breathe but still flinching at the sound of something coming near. Your subtleties dance on her tongue's words. Soothing as they are, they're poison.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How being brave is nowhere near your grasping distance. You try, every single day you try. You try to always go for the long term but the universe decides what you get, right? And you're always left with dust, shadows, and empty bottles of what ifs. You're always left with the questions, the sitting alone, the cold coffee in the morning. You're left with the sad playlists on your Spotify. You're left on your own. If you were in The Fault in our Stars book, that will be my always.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Fears. Trembling hands holding out cups of secrets. Awkwardness in every written letter on paper hidden under the pillow. Loneliness sitting next to old books bought on a favorite bookstore. Depression long gone but resurfaces every now and then. It's one of things that stayed. Self-hate. It is one thing you run towards to when things get rough and when doubts are heavier than anything you laid your hands on and tried to carry.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Of how I recently started loving myself and slowly drowning my hate in formaline. Of how I keep on repeating I never need the reassurance. Of how poems are all I need to feel like I can feel air inside my lungs again.
It is one thing to have a theory, and another to face it in practice.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
Take me to cliffs, love. Push me off every single one of your cliffs. I am ready for the fall, no ropes around me, I will let my fear of heights swallow me whole. Is it still called fear if it takes me to the highest of highs with no need to scream?
Take me to oceans, love. To seas, lakes, rivers. Saltwater is healthy for the soul, love. If your tears allow you to quench the thirst to grow, I will let you wallow. I cannot swim but your love taught me that the deepest waters can only drown me if I let it. Drown me.
Take me to places, love. To roadtrips, car radio sing-alongs, sneaky hand-holding, and restaurant tables for two. Keep me company during campfires, uneasy dreaming, and watergun fights. I will build us a treehouse, overlooking all of that we wish to leave behind.
Take me anywhere you like, love. I am yours for the taking.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
I’ve researched about rainbows last night and I guess everything I’ve read about them reminded me of you. Yes, I have been cloaking you under the word “rainbow” for some time now and maybe it is only right to tell you why.
Science tells us that rainbows come after the rain, a storm, a sudden burst of heaven’s emotions. It does not always follow it but when the sun touched what is left of the rain, it bends light and etches out a ray of seven colors that point out different things. As light passed through the water in my eyes, I saw you. Maybe you really are the rainbow, the one after every heartbreak there is in this insane world.
Red. This is the first, the light with the longest wavelength. Maybe this is where our kisses fit. The work of art we leave on each other’s skin. We have always loved how our lips looked like after every kiss – crimson red and bleeding with genuine love. As red as my shirt, as red as your blood, left on your lips after we got lost in the moment. Red also shouts passion. This is where our love for every piece of art resides. When we walk on museums, holding hands, and inhaling dried up paint on every possible canvas there is, I let my heart melt in your palms, knowing you would eventually turn me into dust and make me your best piece of art. Red also tells a lot about security. How one can feel the warmth as the color red blends with the 4 corners of a room. With you, I found heat, warmth, and safety in a body. I have never felt I can find home in someone’s hand. I have always seen finding a home in a person terrifying, scared of the impending possibility of destruction. Here, in your palms, I found the 4 corners people have been searching for their whole lives. I have found home in you.
Orange. In psychology they say this represents equilibrium and control. I’m putting every ounce of respect we have for each other here. It is like knowing when to start and when it has to breathe and pause. It knows how to put everything in place, like my shoulder to the sides of your face, my tongue on your mouth, your thighs around me. We have been through shortcuts and the longest way back to each other but it always spelled out as just right. You have always noticed how we complement each other, and yes, we do. It is like every god gambled to see us fit our pieces together effortlessly. See the edges of my soul fit yours in the most perfect way it crept out those who broke us and left us like this. They have forced themselves to try and come up with a good picture but you see, we always made a better one. It has gone from queer to insane to all kinds of crazy, but balances out well with our sanity and clear minds when all of our monsters are sound asleep.
Yellow. It represents the clarity of thought and wisdom. This is something I have to confess. Whenever you’re around, my mind halts and seems to get off track. Full of all the possibilities that are in store for us. Full of all your words that added up to good poetry that I can never come up with. Whenever my brain wanted to lash out on all the good things I have left, you are the most peaceful sleep I get. Whenever I wanted to give up sleep, you stayed up late with your eyes half-closed, telling me stories about the times you used to feel something in your chest when you see me. Whenever I had to tell everyone it’s okay when it’s not, you tell me all the right words to show them it’s okay to not be okay. Whenever I punch walls just to feel something, you take my hands and place them on yours, telling me you are hurting, too. All my days that I spent drowning in your love came with a safety net, but I never had to use it because you were always careful about the waves, knowing I couldn’t swim. People asked me to always fill the gaps in silences, but you, you let me have my quiet. I have always felt like I am walking under the rain, under a strong storm that everything that happens to me seemed to take me to dark places. You have been the sunlight in all of that. You are my clarity.
Green. This is the middle color of the rainbow. Sandwiched in all this chaos is growth, our growth. In the last months I have seen you cry and wipe your own tears using your sleeves. You have seen me break down a million times, on my knees and finally calling on a god we used to believe in when we were kids. We have been thrown out by chances we didn’t take, or took but turned out to be lessons. As we saw broken, as we saw lost and defeat, we found each other cradling the hope of another chance to grow. We fed on bankrupt promises but now we know better – that words do not equate to actions, that the sun does not always give warmth but can also mean rain, that knowing the future is as scary as walking back to the past, that our teenage angst always brought the rebel in us, that our desire to run away is rooted in inconsistency and feeling the opposite of contentment, that love is not always good the first time you taste it. We have travelled around, tasting wrong mouths and savouring on bad poetry from people we thought we knew but just had more ways of masking themselves. They try to cover up the claw marks left on our backs but we show them to tell the world the pain was all worth it. We were broken, yes, but one can always be whole again.
Blue. It is the color of the unknown, the sky, the wide oceans. As we go down this road I knew the sky would remind me of our always clouded but guided thoughts, and that oceans are meant to make us remember that salt water feeds our skin with the taste of life. It is the color that feeds on my obsession with knowing where everything will fall before I jumped. It is the color of distance. Of going the extra mile for you, knowing that it will always be appreciated. Of the 1911 miles of land and sea that will beg me to **** them just to touch you again. I have always feared going away, but having someone to go home to is just another story. It is the color of the sheets we slept in that night we confessed our love for each other. It is the color of all the blood running in my veins so fast when you call out my name. Stick a needle in my skin, a hum of your voice screaming “Stay” will flood your ears. It is the color of the future, of the out there we can never be sure of. The future is something my hands can never grasp, never breathe in, it is like swimming in open waters. I have always been smothered with choices. I will always choose you. I can only wish that you stop searching for a new sky to look at. I want to write a new sky for you, a new ocean.
Indigo. It is said that this color is sedating. Picture serene. I have seen this in your smiles when we talk about the things that make your insides curl into ***** of unknown feelings. I forgot rage. I forgot empty. I forgot sins. It is the tranquillity I only found in your arms. My appetite for your arms around me eat me up at night, craving for your every breathe, yes. We made a shrine for all our mistakes, laugh at our misleading thoughts. Picture calm. It is waking up to the nest that is your hair, stained with all our tears from last night’s confessions. I pulled you closer to me, thinking it is enough to keep us together for a minute, or a day maybe. But this calm is always snatched away with the question of how come these strong emotions are labelled wrong? My skin has been tainted, touched by hands that only wanted nothing but heat. You wanted friction, never ending battle between cold and hot. You touch my skin like it is the most poetic act you’ve ever done. I am worse than sin but you forgot your gods for me. Picture sober. It is that night we drank alcohol to test each other’s weaknesses, tip scales and push boundaries. Do not leave me breathing, keep me on my toes, and leave love notes on my skin. I woke up with a bad hangover but what‘s left on my sheets were your scent, spilled beer, and your last words, “Do not stop kissing me.” The gap between finite and infinite lies on my arms and yours, tell me we’d defy odds to keep each other. Your colors beneath my skin, crumbling. In all ways possible, you are my permanent. You snatched my baggage while I slept and when I woke up, I have the color of your eyes to carry. My poetry is yours to sink your teeth in.
Violet. Some says it ignites imagination. Artists crave this color so much. You were the first person to see my art as something to treasure and be intimate with. You are my favorite artist. You painted over the things I wished I never knew about myself. You spilled ink on my skin, thinking they will turn me into solid sculptures of hurt. Carve good things, leave your writing on my skin, I need them there, to remind myself you were there, and really wanted to stay there. Darker shades of this color says sorrow. As we counted days and as they come near the number we feared, stealing glances seemed to be worth more now, seconds drenched in our silences meant the world, shared meals are exchanged with uncertainties and salt on the table. I wish and sincerely hope I never live to see the day when this is left to pieces, in desperate need of repair. I can be your tragedy, but you can never be mine. I fear endings. I cannot face endings. I hold out my hand to tell people I will never lose hope. Delaying the end with delaying the start. My heart is a burning city but you made it out alive. You are my burning city, scorching my skin but I will never find the strength to let go of you. Do not leave me with your I love you’s because we will never end up in good terms. I don’t want us to end in good terms because hope will just eat me out alive. You said before you were in a place between red and blue, that’s violet. Was I a risk worth taking? Was I the safe place? This is close to your favorite color, isn’t it? That’s always how it’s going to be for us. Close enough. Almost there. Almost. Almost.
I don’t want your mouth, I crave your breathing. I don’t want your blue lips, turning violet. Death is for our bad memories, not for our bodies. I don’t want your lungs, I want heavy breathing on days we need not use words to express feelings. I don’t want hands, I want warmth, steady and consistent. I don’t want your voice, I want your throat choking on words rushing and stumbling, stuttering. I don’t want your skin, I want you here. Beside me, cradling me and telling me we’re near perfect, we’re almost there. I don’t want your red heart, I have one already. I want you.
There is no real end to a rainbow. I hope we never have to find ours.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
How in love are we?
Can you tell?
This is me trying.
I have been every shade of someone else
But with you, I am myself
This was something I was supposed to be immune to
That I claim I’m better at
This is going to hurt
Loving you is like reaching the heavens
While planting myself deep into the ground
Bridging them with all our words of love and promises
Always the certain words, always the uncertain future
You are my release from this trap of skin
Whispering my insanity, breaking the naked eye
Each of my 206 bones are aching to fuse with yours
If I didn’t say I love you that night
That would’ve cost me a whole universe
Thoughts of “You ruined it” came rushing
But when you inhaled my words and let out a smile
I knew you wouldn’t let me destroy this alone
You never let me hurt the poems in my lungs
Always the air to breathe in
You let me breathe
You are one of my birthday wishes I never made but came true
I swear to god you can see a mosaic of you on my nails
A museum of half-drunk thoughts of you in my head
Your irises are deeply rooted in mine
Hands fit, shoulder blades never cutting each other
You're already in poems I haven't written yet
They will never lose a hint of you in them
We never needed that relationship anatomy
We are our own perfect piece of the time frame
I found happiness in your tired arms
I stopped hiding
You are safe in my mouth
I am always hungry
Never distant
But never close enough
The corpses of my questions found light in your answers
Our lost became our home.
Our broken our ceiling.
When we started building again, that ceiling crashed
Now we see stars, the swirling galaxy that made this worth the pain
When we said “I love you”
We meant “I am ready to be consistent with you”
How in love are we?
Can you tell?
This is me trying.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
I have my aim
But I'm scared to death I will miss
I have you now
But will tomorrow hold that certainty
You realized the crap out of me
But you still chose to empty my gun of its bullets
The trigger is yours to pull
But you decided to pull me closer
Haven't they told you to stay away from me?
I guess what you heard was “Save the sinner.”
I was not made for anyone to love but you did
These hands were not made to hold but I learned to grip
To hold on and now I’m letting go
Once I'm gone, will you write about me
Will you write about our almosts
Our firsts and especially our lasts
Maybe if you do, my heart will rest in peace
Knowing I have left fingerprints in between your ribs
Yours are in every bit of my being
How can this world be that cruel
Use all its forces to put something together so perfect
and use up all that is left to claw it all down to grains
I know this because I see them slipping in between my fingers
I will never understand
I thought I understood it
That I could grasp it
But I didn't, not really
These are words I wish that I could etch upon my skin
But unfortunately, I already know
that I would just run out of space
I want to destroy everything we've built
and drown in its ruins
Inhale what is left and keep it inside my chest
My burnt lungs will hold your words
I will look at our mistakes, our undoing
Our slow submersion in everything we hoped we’d see stay
Maybe then I will see something beautiful in death
We lost
We did, right?
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC