Today, I walk down the same shore
Of beach 'revival'
They say,
Pick a stone
And you'd come again,
They said the same before.

Out of the shiny, shimmering, crystalline ones,
I chose the darkest, small and round piece of rock.
One mistook it for a darkened egg,
While others declared it a marble.

It's a stone,
Simply my way back to the beach,
Where my transient legs once laid bare
And the grains of sand
pricked against my sole.
Where once my love and I walked hand in hand,
his smile reaching my soul.

Those were yesteryears,
We were young, bold and shy.
His shirt button up till his tie.
We promised to build a house
Along the seaside
Hearing the rhymes of dancing waters.

Indeed I'm back again,
To return the nature its nature,
Giving a last look at the stone
That held him and I close.

I close my eyes
And smile with grief,
I feel his hand touch mine,
I let the stone fall off my fist.
His form disappears in thin air.
My intention is fulfilled.
I've let the waves
Wash away the mortal existence of us.
Now remain only in the faded memories
Of the revival beach.

It's another night,
I decide to sit by the window side.
Eyes wander outside,
with a pen in hand and a blank paper on desk.
Eyes beg to sleep,
but something keeps me awake.

I listen to the sound of rain,
the only source of peace tonight.
The cold breeze touches my skin,
And retell their journey.
The netted curtails sway,
what a ghostly sight, it's grey.

The sky is soaked in somberness,
Clouds not letting the moonlight reach the window pane.
I remind myself, 'I'm fine and sane.'
But really,
I wonder what's darker;
the storm outside
or inside?

I lift my pen and scribble down a word or two,
Crumble it and throw it away.
I lack words to say,
Since the desire is too palpable to convey.

A desire to sink,
I want to free float after my last blink.

Missing home,
which is built with love,
little thunder and storm.

It's a bittersweet pain,
A desire I find hard to contain.
So I carry it in my pocket,
Sealing it with my blood.
Naming it 'passion',
One day, I whispered and nobody heard.
My voice was strong but low.
"I'll keep this a secret,"
I promised,
"until I break into a million pieces."
Today, I'm cracked but not shattered,
So once again I cage my thoughts.
Keep my passion - a muffled voice.
"It's definitely fate, not a willing choice,"
I reassure myself.
The day would come,
My shattered pieces would become shinning glitters,
Silver if not gold.
Until then, I'll stay still,
And keep my passion on hold.