I've made a point of making the difference
between being in love with someone
and loving them.
Being in love is eating strawberry ice-cream
or holding hands on a walk in the park.
It is the smell of summer,
it is the touch of the sea breeze,
it is waking up from a sweet dream.
But loving,
loving is rainy days spent in between bed sheets,
is it the immaculate silence
you can only share with a heart that beats to the same rhythm as yours,
it is the sound of thunder.
So when you tell me you love me,
I almost want to believe it,
but I look into your eyes and understand
you have no idea what you're talking about.
You're confusing it with fascination, darling,
you're confusing it with curiosity.
You're taking the street lights for stars.
You're taking the depth of the ocean
for familiar territory.
Your desire to figure me out,
to put me together like a puzzle
and the moonlight we shared
had nothing to do with love.

Today I threw away the third letter I wrote to you.
I always write them under the moonlight,
under the impression that
it might somehow make every word sacred,
every sentence holy.
I write them with shaky hands and teary eyes.
I write them for me,
I write them for you.
But when morning comes,
I taste regret on my tongue
and each letter feels poisonous.
So I rip them apart
with the same fierceness I tore myself away from you.
Closure?
I don't know how to get it
when I'm not the only one that had been hurting.
I still hang on to the unfinished.
I only wish to let go.

I am still just a shadow.
I am still just star dust.
I am still part of a Universe I never quite knew
but I'm homesick for.
I bleed only to pull the stars out by their edges.
I close my eyes only to let the shine rest.
I look up only to remind myself where I came from.
And when you find my skin
between sheets and raw feelings scattered about
you'll flinch from the coldness.
And you won't know
what I hold inside
and that will be your curse.

Saying too much is regretful.
Saying too little is poignant.
But what is it when you feel
you've  done both at the same time?
There are words left on my tongue,
shards of sentences I'll never utter
shards that I had to swallow.
They cut deep into my flesh
and my insides turned into
a patchwork of glass, scars and blood.
And yet my mouth is dry,
tired of everything I let slip through my lips
when it should've never seen the light of day
or reached your ears
or reached your heart.
I keep thinking I should've known.
But I shouldn't have.
My mind would've gone mad
had I not released it
of some of its burden.
My heart would've dried out
had I not let
a few drops of your ocean
seep through.

Shivers on skin-
I walked among stars,
held them in my arms
and embraced them tight,
as I felt how my veins filled up with light.
I, too, wanted to be a fallen one,
to look for a place
where I could hope
and I could sigh,
without the pressure of having to shine.
But it failed to be found;
I turned back to the sky.

Under the moonlight, I understood
why darkness asked for my company
or why the stars were winking at me
each dreamless night.
I knew of my existence not as a human
but as a child of the moon, as a child born from mystery.
I bore my name and I spoke it
not in whispers,
but loudly, with a feeling of belonging
to a universe that showed itself wholly
in my complicated mind,
in my damaged soul,
in the green spark of my eyes,
which encompasses every word I've left unsaid,
in the emotion running smoothly down my cheek
whenever I was thinking of you.

I've been tasting darkness on my tongue
like candy;
I've been feeling blood flowing warmly through my veins,
ready for sacrifice:
the blood of a goddess,
the shine of the brightest star the night has ever held
and the mind of the most enigmatic child
the moon has ever raised.
I have been-
I am-
I always will be.
I feel,
I feel,
I fall with such satisfaction
you'd think I'm flying.
I let the sky bear the mark of my existence.