I.
Your presence beamed like the moonlight it ought to be
Your spell wandered
Hugging trees and blessing pavements
And I let thou love grow within me

I had nothing to say to thee
All love, all glamour
Perfections to imperfections
All reeking of positivity

We chased and soared with the wind
Braving it then and there, we were a team
And deeper I fell
In a trap I wouldn’t know even after years

II.
The peaks are o’er
The tides have changed
An infinity of reasons, another after another
Confusion made us insane

Apologies have piled on top of each other
Despite, we beseeched our love to stay
O, Dear, we thought we’re unbreakable
Yet the hurricane consumed us in every way

Benches and cushions
Of where we sat upon our confessions
And there, calmly, we bid our goodbyes
As there were no amendments, no resolutions

III.
O my Love, how did thee become a stranger
Art what they spew out be true?
That our love is ‘posed be questioned
All these years, these years that have gone through

But we know, I ought we know
That we have loved so dearly
Yet the wick has burnt
Until it’s time to let things be

i only write in the middle of the night
while the stars watch me
waste ink of blood
dripping from the veins of my brain

i only write in the middle of the night
while the moon guards me
as i write the message of my soul to the universe
solely dug from my heart

and suddenly everything comes back to reality
the sun sets high
illuminating the pitched black sky
and i wonder,
will i ever enjoy the daylight
while carrying the burdens i hold inside



a.t.

Of parallel universes,
of Plath’s metaphors,
of Soviet wars and
extistence we abhor

Things she cannot comprehend
not as much as
the words,
and thoughts she lend

Fantasies, realities
blocks
and pieces
are puzzles from different places

Glass and water
are lone,
veracious crystals

Therefore, this girl with
burning curiosity
hair tied,
matching red bow
will come after
rainbows, unicorns
and blackholes

Whilst her head’s buried in books
and mysteries of the undiscovered nooks

You think you love me, but you don’t.
And as much as I wanted you to, and you wanted yourself to–
The answer will always be a no.

No, you don’t.
Yes, you tried.
But no, you never chose me.

It doesn’t make sense, does it?
Not all things true, don’t.
Nor untrue.

We loved, you and I.
For a short while.
Choosing and reckoning what was it that made us

Us,
From a momentum filled with joyous embrace
To bridges burning, memories flayed

he was purple
i was blue

we were
almost alike

except that
we didn't know

what was going on
between us two


a.t.

coffees are my one-way ticket to contemplation–
to realizations and dramas
it shapes my eyes
to view life like a panorama

coffee makes me think
about the world,
the people
and both combined

coffee connects me to the crowd
to their lives,
mishaps
sometimes shared with mine

coffee gates to different events and realities
it awakens wishful thinking
and kicks curiosities

coffee, summed up
is a friend
of all those who've got their heads in their *****

it is a guru of life
love,
and other life experiences


                                                   ­       a.t.

Some days your mind floats like dandelions,
wandering aimlessly
on and on.

Like magic,
like dust,
like time you cannot touch–
you are lost in your universe
crushing dreams and unweaving expectations

Until suddenly,
gravity pulls you back
into your sheets.

Your eyes,
hostaged in reality,
come back in its consciousness

You wake up,
let a tear drop,
and feel bad for breathing.

Used cups of coffee
crumpled notes on top,
all scattered
all left untouched

Shoulders’re in pain,
lumps in my throat.
Sitting straight back,
head’s wandering
thoughts I can’t explain

The screaming, the jolting
the laughing, the crying
multitude of emotions
happening all at once
in different corners
of this orange box

and I keep waiting
for time to tick off
and find myself
floating on the driest desert
withering,
lost―
in actions and in words

a.t.

Disappointed with the way it is
and how it has been
How you feast with the beasts;
taking advantage of the situation we’re in

Divided in unwanted conspiracy
Divided in different sides of the story
Coming only from a simple plea
of your self-absorption,
and blindness from own’s irrationality
have you caused a dent, a division

With less hopes of resolution from this mounting divide,
Remember: we walked with all your kinds,
in wretchedness and in exuberance,
attesting, didn’t we all have a good run?

Now hear the people of your past,
stop romanticizing what won’t last–
Foreshadowing with plastering rewards
Those previously resented, now with flying regards

―a.t.

You’re sad. And sadness, well, it’s characterized by negative circumstances in your life. But have you ever thought about it? How the brain controls emotions? How the brain, literally, controls every reception in our body?

Loss of a family member, of a special someone, disappointment over your colleague–everything that happens in our world is pure information. And our brain decides how to react to it. I am sad, you are sad, he is sad. Everyone feels the same, though never exactly on the same degree. But the point is everyone endures feelings because our mind tells us to. And sometimes your brain will fail you and would you ever know why? Why the system of the neurons rewiring in your head suddenly choose to break you? As much as you want to be in control, it’s hard and it’s a process. But thinking about it, isn’t it magical? How the brain controls your decisions and suddenly your entire life?

But remember, you’re just science in this world. We all are. You’re a walking anatomy of cell tissues. A speck of humanity sitting in corners. Barely significant. You’ve read books about the philosophy of mankind, of intangible things, of excruciating norms. But the mind could only absorb what you feed. Now I’m asking, how do we take control? Our emotions? Our tendencies to reciprocate what’s unworthy? How do we justify the unthinkable? Art? How do we take control of our lives? Faith is a good concept but aren’t we just a product of science–-science of pumping blood and adrenaline glands? Science of DNAs and reproductive system? Bottom line is, mortality is cruel. And all our stories end in one–death, decomposition, and a life untold.

So try not to be sad. Try to take control of your feelings. Take over your ******* brain–your freaking hypothalamus. Because in years time, eventually we’ll crumble in the ground. And we won’t remember a thing, memories happy or sad.



―a.t.

Hello,
Are you going back to sleep?
Wish you thought of me today
Been thinking if something’s up
Are we alright?

Hello,
You forgot something
And I didn’t wish to be this dramatic
Pray tell
Do you still feel for me?

Hello,
Have you seen me?
I’ve been waiting for you to arrive
You’ve been out of reach
Give me one good glance

And maybe after that,
I’ll be gone

Hello, I’m going now.

A house alone on a plateau of greens,
A dangerous tour amid the vast cement of ruralness,
And a nervous hand in a stifling box
~Or sometimes with a little tune of friendly laughter~
There sat a mind that’s floating and a heart that’s thrusting.

Under the austere sun blazing high
And the air that was sandy,
The orange hues were blending with the wind.
Greens, too, were present
And other colors perfecting a sight
of a scenic view.

There were six heads with dry and stiff hairs
And drained skins.

Those were the days, and they didn’t know it.
And only after those days did they realize
That happiness was everywhere
That ~that~ was a favorite amongst other whereabouts
Where they wished:
Should this be the only livable life
Cause then they would not ever want to perish
Nor leave this point in time.

Yet, they were too high
And naive
And now all are missed.

when you’ve traced
every corner of my body
and have felt
the brittleness of my bones
—and when you’ve brushed
your fingers
through every inch
of my skin,
promise me
you won’t break me

when you’ve bit my lips
and find it bleeding
know that I’m vulnerable to your lies

and when you’ve kissed my tears
and find my eyes lost
know that I’m fragile to your touch

In all honesty, I think about you a lot.
Still.
I think about you while I'm waiting in line,
while I stir my coffee in the morning,
when I remove my makeup after a long day.

I think about you in the middle of meetings,
while I’m waiting for my Uber,
and even when I light my cigarette.

I think about you in the most random moments
But the thought of you has stopped lingering in my head.
I think about you,
but I cannot say I that I could still remember you.

You're just a thought now,
an idea
from the past.

Because to remember―
is different
To remember―
is to travel back in time
and feel the way I felt when I used to walk beside you,
have lunch with you,
and stare at your flawless skin.

You're just a thought now,
a memory
I want to keep good.

I still think about you a lot.
And admittedly,
sometimes,
if you’re thinking about me too.

   —a.t.

I’m aching. And though I have admitted this to myself a gazillion times over; I’m aching. I’m aching because I am aware, and I have not done anything to stop the ache myself.

I’m aching, ultimately because I have accepted my defeat. And as I reason myself out, I’m also limited. I can’t drag myself further knowing I have already made a stop on me, that I have given up. That I have completely surrendered my days on what has always been plotted out. My drive has turned somewhere else and like me, it has lost its direction.

So, I ache. Every day. Every passing moment.



―a.t.

i wither in time and space
i fall blank
in memory and place

all crashing down
in thin lines
subsequently
time after time

i know i was the first
who took off
and never came
to return

but you do know
im never stagnant
never still
i don't know what i want
so i journey

—different places
people
paces

until im lost
until im never found
am my own ghost
wandering
to different grounds

but there's an unending plea
to never search for me

tis where i deserve to be
withering for eternity

I make funny faces on my own
As a distraction to my ****** flesh
From creating a wrinkly wretched face
Or to make a whiny weeping sound
Like of a moaning mammal

**** feelings and that crippled creature!
Though tonight passes as a surmountable story
This reaction from a minute moment
Woke the bewildered Bukowski in me
Oh God no, am I a lifeless laughingstock?

let's stay in a coffee shop
read a book or something
let's have a date
           wordlessly.

or we can sit on a rock
watch the sunset
have our favorite journals on our laps
          write how we feel at the moment.

―a.t.

I need a pinch of goodness.
A slight nudge
from unfamiliar surfaces
that will help me gaze
through these dying days.

A spring of hope. Energy.
Or inspiration.

My soul is in a rolling stone
at the moment. It ceases to
understand and has been left afloat.

It exists ever so lightly.
Without a gust, without a mere trace.

if i were to paint her
it's not going to be her curvy eyes
nor her contagious smile
but rather
a flower
in the middle of everything
that's not right

she is happiness
she is light
she is a woman
—a brave, loving woman
and she's one of a kind


a.t.

Long after a few years, and a little more encounters,
A little more fun, and random whereabouts 
A little more bickers, and random conversations
That I found this path to someone like you

After a long while,
I wouldn’t have known how insanity
Would bring me to a different dimension
Of our little, peculiar situation

And how I’d find myself
Being succumbed to happiness
That I never thought I’d ever
Bring myself into

I am happy with you,
And though I’m still unfamiliar
With happiness in somebody new
I thought I’d try to let my inhibitions go

So I hope you won’t leave, just yet
I want to be with you,
And let myself see how things could turn out to be
If I tell you now, that I love you

I know very well that I could escape the sorrow of leaving. But right at this moment, I’m choosing not to.

I wanna let it flow all through me like poison that will slowly **** me. I wanna breathe the fire in her lungs. I wanna scrape all the good memories and let the bad ones break me.

I think I know now what I deserve―and the ones I don’t.

‘‘To here”, she said.
“I know, I’m sorry”, I replied.

Shards of pain were visible through her eyes. She easily dismantled and I had no right to pick up her lone pieces. I caused pain and never its absence.

But maybe someday I could try.
When both our hearts are free.



―a.t.

You're so happy,
You're so sad.
It's like your tears
Were made of shooting stars,
And your sigh
—oh your sigh,
Took out the last fragments
Of the pain
From all your wars.

You're so happy,
You're so sad.
Heart's fleeting
After a couple of tunes,
And mind's sweeping
Your feelings
Cause you're not the type
Who swoons.
                                —a.t.

Chances are, you will be reintroduced to yourself
during these crooked times.

It’s like, after a lifetime of agony, all the while—
you were just waiting for an epiphany to strike.

Your present and your future will start to talk.
Discuss.
And persuade.

And on your feet,
you will take another leap of faith or
just anything that will trigger a strict change.

And again, after a lifetime,
you will meet yourself.

And all will be realigned.

I am a blabber.
What I’m trying to do,
I don’t know.

I wish people didn’t have to have too many baggages.
I wish I didn’t have one now,
I wish you didn’t either.

But what else could be there
that contributes to this unrelenting,
disheartening bicker of
who gets the points for good karma?

Is it pride? Sure.
How about nonchalance and indifference? I’d say yes.

What I’m trying to do, I don’t know.
What I’m trying to understand, I can’t grasp.
Who I try to remember, I’m trying to bury.

Brittled skins of a maiden
From last night’s
     torment
Under a coffee shop’s peaceful ambience
Feeling bluest of blue
As secrets and confessions
Were written in cuts,
     crimson wounds

she was slapped ******* her face
she did things on her own
she uttered the unimaginable
she was desperate
she was hurt
she didn’t know what to do
she wanted to let loose
she wanted to breathe
she wanted to cover herself under her sheets
she was cold
she was confused
she wanted to die

and so she wrote

She starts with a ‘you’ and they start with a beauty of something that’s new. She starts with ‘sometimes’ and they start with probabilities that are perhaps more valid. She keeps asking ‘why’ while they are always sure what’s been written. Well, I say, we’ve different point of views and hers’s a lot deeper than what’s on your mind.

―a.t.

Love someone
who will lend you books
when you’re sad

someone who will drive you home
while holding your hand

someone who will bring you to concerts
of your favorite bands

and someone who’ll make you laugh
when you’re acting bland

―a.t.

and we’re in the same place again.
and again.
and again.

i have come to meet myself
in the same corner of my woes.

and from a safe distance
people are like black holes.

i wish I could tell myself to stop
and just get curious.

yet I can’t move on so easily—
for it consumes.

We were standing against the railing of a balcony somewhere before the ocean, under the dusk of good night’s sky. The quiet air, moving past our faces, hair blowing, fills the dead atmosphere in between the silence that clears the solitary moment. I reached for your tiny fingers as I shiver in the cold. But only the coldness of the midnight tickled me. My smile turned to a frown then I turned my back on the shore.

I wish you’d come back.


a.t.

read my body
read my actions
read my lips
and groans of unsatisfaction

stop pretending to be blind
from the reality im not trying to hide

i’m not down for love
but a yes for lust
not for romantic dusts
and fleeting bonds
but a yes for drama and
golden nights

a.t.

i have plenty of unread books
from Roth
to Palahniuk
supposed have been read
at a good nook

these books I have
are stacked on one shelf
cause time hasn’t given
a minute for myself

these books I have
are my companions
when I’m split into halves
amid destruction

my eyes are exhausted from seeing things
i need not want to have a glimpse

from looking at people
i need never want to love at all

from catching melancholic eyes
i need in no way want to sympathize


my eyes are exhausted
from observing faces of reality

the crooked
unsubtle kind of hypocrisy


―a.t.

Like the leaves that were rustling with the wind
Touching surfaces, blocks, and walls
Reflecting adult-like banters
Each passing,
Going back and forths

Like those pebbles that were skipping
branches that were kissing
And dirt flying against our skins
Each passing,
Retiring from mine to hers

A thousand chirps I did not mind
Yet a venture made it clear
Your soul is a wanderer
Like mine. Yet, we ought we’re not as much
As we thought we’re alike

I feel like a sick lady waiting for well wishes from my sisses and mates. I’ve been a giver and a settler and in three weeks, I found myself hanging in between. And now here I am, in my sickbed crying for attention— living in this pocket-sized, time-filler, slick box for most of my days just prying on everybody else’s lives to check how incomparable it is to live a life less like mine.

Everyday at five, the sun sets, overshadowing the blue sky with soft transitions of reds and oranges. And just right before I knew it days, weeks have already gone by. I found myself with nothing but dull empathy and collective misery. I re-spiraled down to the mantle of my being until it hit me— attention is cheap, but intention is gold. And I have wasted so much time, so much time, chasing the idea of perfect romance from the most impossible people. It made me worry, too, on how bad I have been in making decisions just to curtly satisfy my longing for any human who can provide even the slightest damp on my cold skin.

I’m not trying to compose a self-help quotable narrative nor ****-**** essay about self-love. I have stripped off the idea of 1-2-3s, of healthy coping mechanisms, of capturing perfect moments from the most mediocre, mundane fragments of life during my trying times. These past few encounters have been merely playdates and guessing games where I’ve lost sight of innocence and sincerity, making it hard for me to differentiate temporariness with permanence. And knowing kindness with or without an agenda is like a cloud in my head. Therefore, throughout these years, the flowers I planted have slowly wilted under the shade of infinite uncertainties. I have lost the love I was willing to give, and I can’t help but think that romance is not for me. I’m tired of giving and losing; I have given up moving mountains and breaking walls just to find myself being stabbed for being too much. From this day on, I am going to be me, with me. A bloke. A woman—alone in a swarm of parasites and flock of birds. A strong, pragmatic, detached woman in this horrifying epic journey of self-salvation.

—Advent
3:27am

The redness on your arms. Your roughly patched skin.
Your soft black hair I used to push back.
And the cold skin on the sides of your chest, the parts I used to trace.

Your neck. Ugh, your neck. Where I used to bury my face.
And your smell that comes with it.
Your stubby fingers and your wide palms. The spaces between them. I miss those parts.

The back of your ears, those soft muscles I used to caress.
And your imperfectly shaped brows, those that I brush with my thumb. I miss those parts.

And your lips. Of course.
Those plump lips that used to touch mine.
I miss those.

Except you.
I don’t miss you.

God, I’d rather ****!

―a.t.

Your beauty is like the smoke I puff on a Sunday afternoon after all the dandelions fly their way up―visible and infinite. Imagine it in an island while you chase the light right above the ocean. And I’ll be seated, watching your hips sway, realizing that you’re too good for me.


―a.t.

measure their love by
tracing actions to words
words to action

if they didn't lead you back
on the same path,

then you weren't
measuring anything at all

You–I, we saw the world. The allegiance of mankind to rising of the sun. The treachery of actions to life. We shared spectacles of the remote lands atop mountains and boulders. Butterfly kisses made us weak, hushed promises and dreams made us vulnerable, and nape grabs always led your lips on mine.

You–I, we were one of a kind, self-aware, and spirited. You learned to thirst for open air and I also buried myself in your cosmos of black and white–of objectivity, ambitions, and pursuit of balance. We embraced one another’s quirks and differences.

You–I, were each other’s halves. Our souls met halfway as there were no words, definitely no words, left unsaid even through the darkest or littlest bickers we’ve had. Everything was real and translucent. We saw through each other, effortlessly. And everything wasn’t so bad.

We were us, together. With our dreams and aspirations. And as a team, we almost perfected compromise. Trying closely to weigh the good and bad banking on our values, beliefs, and priorities.

Until finally, we surrendered to our fragmented relationship and irreconcilable differences which made us grew better together and apart.

And maybe, that’s why we broke up.

―a.t.

what are love letters for if permanent ink
doesn't entail candor
nor draws sight of the future?
but only the mere fleeting moment
of when the letter was composed?

what are love letters for if
metaphors don't suffice
and mind you,
words aren't her weakness,
despite

what are love letters for if
feelings are fleeting
flickery and
always changing
but never ices an ending

it's nothing but a sonata of promises
vows, and oaths
of I love yous
and gorgeous penmanship

of lads desperate
for love
that worships

―a.t.

when the clock ticks at 12,
another minute has passed and another day has been renewed.
it replenishes an entire moment that separates yesterday from today.

when the clock ticks at 12,
a part of me has left something for good.
something that could only be retrieved by the nostalgia
of the passing hours that gives a pang of discomfort and dismay.

when the clock ticks at 12,
a fairy godmother is there waiting for me to move past everything and start fresh,
like nothing has ever happened from yesterday

but when the clock ticks at 3,
my emotions are scattered,
eating me alive.
it kicks me out of the zone - exposing me to a world of nothing but things to hide.
it haunts my core, dwells with my demons,
building up emotions that don't seem to collide

and at 3, I find you - once again with all the sublime images we’ve captured
and grand words we’ve uttered.
i find you, drowning from the roots
of my memoirs... and there I see how midnights took parts of me

because at 3, I’ll always remember how I grew with thee


a.t.

emotions at peak
decisions at risk
in one sec,
love falters at no bliss

you spiral through
every wrong corner of your madness
lies start to slither
tongue to tongue
coursing
love-abundant trunks

in spite of
wreathing selfishness and apathy
in spite of
disintegrating pieces of your body
your fallout―
backbone ceasing to give support

you were able
to see through the darkness
surrounding your consciousness
lest,
no other soul shall
and will be
annihilated by
another part of thee

and so,
stop blaming me

―a.t.

I’m writing in memory of your beautiful skin. I’m writing to profess my obsession, in admittance, and also for your knowledge, how your flesh makes me mad. Mad at you and those around you who get to have a glimpse, a touch―even the softest, most placid contact of the husk of your core, your bloodstreams, of your entrails.

I write for you to understand that your skin is the only skin I want to touch, to watch at night, resting. And I’m also writing for your appreciation―which I don’t think you will―that these are the things I think of when I’m with you even during the briefest moments we spend together; that there will always―for always―a feeling of admiration while you’re standing next to me, arm on my shoulders or when your hand is on my thigh.

Sense of touch is one of my weaknesses, and one could only imagine the faint in my heart everytime we brush against each other. Even the littlest and the most innocent touch there is. I am also guilty of being infatuated in our fondling, your caress, and your sense of being-there. And I don’t know how to make sense out of it. This craze is almost like a delusion that is outside of my circle, unprecedented. Your flesh and its texture. I love it. I love it so much. I love you so much.

It’s making me sick.

―a.t.