When you first step into love, it’s like walking into your room with feet freshly washed, and you haven’t even dried it yet. But you climb onto your bed anyway, your feet--- left hanging on the rail across the bed, waiting to dry. You love the sheets, and you fear the water dripping from your feet would mess the beauty of the seams.

          The same thing happens with walking into a relationship, you’re scared of giving it your all, of opening up to a soul you have not synced with. And you just keep holding back from feeling comfortable, from being vulnerable. But when you finally want to delve into the mess of it all, you let it all out and you snuggle your soft feet in the blanket and the sheet.

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.

If you love this air,
I will breathe out everything that is in this cage, so it can be converted into fresher ones, until all of them leave this body. And I would not be at ease, until all the morsels, atoms, come into one with the particles of your being.

If you love the city,
I will build one from scratch, bare hands, stones thrown everywhere for a place of love. With these knuckles bleeding, my blood will then turn into a clear river that runs through the cracks of the town.

If you love the colour green,
I will cut through sticks and stones, to make up a whole grassland, splayed wide enough for a town to come alive, and half a space for a meadow. For the picnic we will have at every noon of every sunny day, just like the ones at the prairies.

If you love the rain,
I will learn to sit still on the pavement, to not quiver and run when it rains. I’ll play in it, regardless of the fear I deeply have for the thunders and lightnings. When it finally comes, I’ll stay closer with you, to feel like I am home— even when standing amidst the chaos that the sky brings.

And if you love me,
I will be me, even when being myself is something I despise at times, when hating myself seems most comfortable. I will start and bring good to myself, to love every piece of my actuality that is scattered like the remnants of a hurricane that stops by every 5 minutes. To be delicately in love with all I have to offer. Because you love me.

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.

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.

I was so used to thinking that if my significant other listens to the same songs I do, enjoys the food I eat with relish too, has that mundane routine, peculiar habits, and reads the cliché books pages by pages, that I will fall hard and he will love me as I imagined he would.

But the basic rule of a magnet pull is that the South pole is attracted to the North pole. Humans are not robots, humans are of a giant and complex ball of stardust. And I am a perplexed mortal being with mechanisms going about, confused.

Because now, he hates the melancholic songs I adore, he craves the things I don't, his ideas for dates are different than mine and he is not me. But how our love conquers the rest, how it ignites the big flame, how it makes our souls long for one another; these defy the notion of being alike to fall in love.

I still can’t figure out why I left a note, my notion is that things should not be left unexplained.

But a note doesn’t calm things down, not a bland wind not a hurricane. And I would have known, had I paid attention,

To how your heart breaks,
From all the silence and noise altogether.

I hope you know that love is never still,
It can go downhill.

It can be blooming with flowers but the next thing you know; thunder and lightning is already striking.

I'm afraid that you'll be surprised,
For love is never stabilised.

I’ll wake up 60 years later and write,
I’ll wake up feeling death at its verge,
Tasting joy being bitter and loneliness being sweet.

I thought I could stay,
But the sun gave me signs to breakaway,
I didn't want to stay,
Wanted to sway,
Then I went away.

For a moment, I sat still,
Another moment, looked for thrill,
Wondered about a whole life to fill,
Just couldn't find the time to ****.

Got a car with pedals I couldn't reach to drive,
Like a bee stuck in a hive,
Felt like a swimmer that has lost the desire to dive,
I was just struggling, fighting, and climbing to strive.

The wind was the greatest tempest,
It could even topple down an empress,
They didn't let me rest,
They left me helpless,
The torture was endless,
So I don't think that leaving's reckless,
If I stayed I wouldn't be here in Venice.

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.

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.

So long so gone with love poured dry,
Both hands grasping still the hopes that died.
The forlorn fate of lovers they couldn't defy,
Alike the stars that didn't collide.

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 haven’t written anything in a long time,
It has become something I am so used to saying.
I haven’t been writing,
A line I have memorized so well.
To tell.
To remind.
That I haven’t written a set of words,
For the times I didn’t write.

The sea is really just, water. Salt water.
But the beach is special because of the sky splayed wide enough to hug the horizons of the sea.

When the sun gives out the warmth to hearts that go there, hearts that are broken and left unhinged.
When the winter makes the water freeze the feet that try to step and go any further, to repel them of the hungry waves.

Imagine the sea bed a colossal bowl, cradling the entire ocean like a mother would.
The sea is then the dear child of the sky, and the sands.

Some people are picturing it differently, maybe the ocean as the teardrops of clouds,

Clouds that are always departing, constantly bidding farewell to lovers, forever being sorry that they can’t ever be still.

That no matter the tide, they can’t stay and watch the sunset because they have to be up there in the sky, moving with the prevailing wind.

I cry for help.
I roll my sleeves up,
I keep the under eyes sore and red,
The books I read they are not what you would expect,
I isolate then scream out,
The constant times of me shutting myself in,
The doors are closed so tightly,
I run into the sunset every day, wondering if I could disappear right after colliding with the sunlight.
The ever-tiring struggle to turn around and not pick up the sharpest object I could find,
In every way that makes me smile, while pushing the bitterness deep down in myself, I still cry for help.