When the sun sets, you will ask me if it's beautiful, for your eyes see less saturated colours, and I did swear to myself that I would forever describe the incessant hues and shades to you with love, so long there is sun.

    The features on your visage and the butterflies you always leave flying in my belly prepossess me more than colours do, for I could see you whole in black and white then my eyes would still be in awe, my heart would flutter more.

I believe in the existence of the parallel universe, that the choices we make, they split our lives into different scenarios. For things that could be, could have been, will be, won’t be. My mind then would wander through every morsel of the choices that I have made, and wonder the kismet of the choices I rejected. It is almost like a reverie, if you could shift between the worlds, you wouldn’t have to be baffled to choose. If only, if only.

This is for mom-
If love had a smell, it would be your scent.
If love had a face, it would be your visage.
If love could be seen, then it would be your grace.
If love could be felt like an embrace, a warm bunny hug, it would be your caress.
And love has nothing more to give but itself, hence that is you.

He saw me the other day,
He told me I looked different, beautiful.
I didn't believe him,
I thought he was only trying to run me down, again.
But he was right.
That evening, I met a gentleman,
that swept my feet away,
stole my heart,
and gave me clouds to sleep on.
I got to see flowers in different colours,
He drew rainbows for me to slide down,
He took me out for a walk in Hyde Park,
took my breath away,
my soul away,
and then, he took my happiness away too.
When he left.
Because I got tired of laughing just too much,
What I wanted was to rest a little, to be calm, to feel like home, to be still.
But he,
He craved the constant appreciation,
What I was giving was not fairly enough,
so he left.
And he saw me the other day,
He told me I looked different, beautiful.
I didn't believe him.

I write excerpts and they are the odds and ends of my veins.
I divulge my feelings and they are what I can't speak.
The empathy was not at all barren,
but apathy is now bursting forth.

He reads me like the book he flips through pages at night when he can't sleep, and he thinks that he can't ever temper with the story, when he changes it every time his fingers run down the sides of the pages.

He sees the wrinkles, he tries to help because he won't close the covers till they are planate, and the soaked papers dry.

In all the wonders he can transact, to my heart he did best. He is still at it, making ours a freakishly beautiful drawn story on this wide canvas he calls 'forever'. Forever that is never enough for him, for us. He keeps on adding pages, and papers, attaching them to the still life.

If one day things don't work out, it might then be a story that souls in love would come to venture.