I am not sure who I am talking to anymore.

Your voice sounds like a stranger;
someone whose voice was never privy to the corners and edges of my heart.

Certainly, not the kind of voice that wisps the rhapsodic notes for my soul to ****** away with.

I don't even wish to know who I am to you now.

So,
hello
Mister Stranger.

Somewhere, in me.
I am hurting.

Tiny splinters of pain, flicks of tears here and there.

Little untitled somethings smarting my everywhere.

My lips.
I can't speak.
Beneath my eyelids.
I don't want to see the world just yet.

The wizened and creased edges of my heart.

Odd thing is, I cannot even
whisper
it
in your ear.

Even if,
you are the only one who will ever know.

Simply because I know
you
are
hurting
*too.

The soft, gentle pitter patter of rain lulls
her
unspoken wishes
into
a quiet, mellow
daydream.

As, the beads of rain curve into something bigger,
the reflection those glassy orbs hold become
something
worth
seeing.

Her eyes once vague.
Now lucidly clear.

Lightning cut across the sky, dotted with stars.

A brilliant spark.

That's
all
she
*needed.

She is an orphan of love.

But, you see, sweetheart,
that
didn't stop
her
from
loving.

You know the zeitgeist of a sweet, sweet memory?

I wish I could bottle it up like stardust and yellowed maps crinkled and wizened.

Like stardust, I can blow them in the same manner with dandelion puffs fluttering in the wind.

Like the creased maps will map out the way
like
constellations for my footsteps
to kiss
on
when
I am
hopeless lost.

And then, like the finest alchemy,
I can see us
again
behind my eyelids
when
I am
old and grey.

Like this one right here.

The rueful ache of time
kissing
goodbye
to
our everywhere
is
rather bittersweet.

The kind of burnt-black and acrid taste of burnt toast.
Strange enough,
it is also
the kind of sweet like
honey and brown sugar
dotting
the centre of it.

I wonder with all my heart,
how does the land of all things forgotten look like?

We would never,
ever know.

Would
we?
Would
you?

For, once you fall in,
you are gone and above all
hopelessly lost.

Your very being
will be
kissed away and yellowed
into
*a dusty wisp of the past.

In
three
simple,
mundane
words.

- in the same way the most beautiful phrase ‘I love you’ is jigsawed together-

I can do the impossible;
coalesce and meld every little thing;
your little laugh and phenomenons beyond our outstretched fingertips .

That is life will
mercifully or regretfully go on.

My face is scarred,
by the tears I weep.
Red welts bleed in the most visceral manner.

The lines that surround my lips are carved deep;
the dusty crevices of happiness.

It is the eyes of a man who saw a beautiful creature & the price of it was infinite blindness.

Lost in the bilious darkness of himself.
But, it is all metaphorical.

No-one else can quite see it.
No mirror can possibly reflect.

I am decaying from the inside.
I am a mess,
a wondrous tangle of the torn ribbons of love.

I am dying.
Slowly but surely
in these suffocating waters.

I adored the very action of blowing dust-motes off a box.

Watch it dance in the distilled air.

I like the sight it presents.
One where the past snaps the silence of today.

Slowly but surely
re-etching how much time has passed
on the corners of my bruised heart.

Once, happiness and sweetness, those dust-motes are just greyed out.

They kiss my cheeks and eyelashes.

I never blew the remnants of time again.

We are so lucky to be alive.
The chances of you even being here is astronomically finite.
Think.
Ponder.
Startle yourself.

Now, start breathing in and out
as wisps of bliss
slowly
forms mellow quietude.

The perfect medium
to be
who ever you want.

Once upon a time, on a blank page, out of pure wide-eyed wonder,
I began to etch everything I know and have yet to realize
on it.

One thing is for certain,
the end is
*far,
far,
away.

I am not quite sure how to say goodbye.
A farewell.

How do you know how long to look in those eyes?
To know your heart is filled with enough 'them'.

How exactly do you crinkle a smile that says "I will come back."?

And most of all, how in the world do your lips utter those two words when there are tears at the back of your throat?

How do you wish the unspoken words you have yet to speak away?

Messy fishtail braids tickling your collar bones
as we both lie on this secret place; only our hearts know.

No stranger; no-one will ever whisk it away from our lips.

For, this map, atlas, bearing
is etched and inked
on the edge of
our bruised and loved hearts.

I very gently carry her up.

And in the most natural motion, her arms wrap around my neck.

I feel her breath tickling the very place my voice whispers, screams, sighs, speak from.

There it is.

The very foreign feeling of being speechless.

Her voice wisps notes that my home and heart has never been privy to.

If the stars were mine I'd give them all to you
I'd pluck them down right from the sky and leave it only blue.
I'd put those stars right in a jar and give them all to
you.

A soft chuckle escapes from my upturned lips.

"No, don't bottle them up, sweetheart.
Let the whole world see and breath in their beauty.
Anything contained will be kissed goodbye by dust-motes."

It will be lost and tragically unloved.

My words hinge onto the distilled silence.

I am not quite sure how to word this.
Okay.
I hear myself exhale sharply.

Wisps of hair tickle my face.

The way your very being cuts such a beautiful silhouette against the universe makes my heart stutter.

Just a little.

Perhaps, that is just inexplicable and undeniable truth that you are real.
Real to me.

"One, two... you?"
She pauses.

Eyes wide with meaning and unsaid thoughts.

"That's how in love I am with you."

I hope you know that.

"Oh I knew. I know."
From the first time, you uttered my name and held my hand.
I knew.
I know.
He whispered back.

I am quite sure, no,
I know you love me too.

And if you do walk away; your footsteps whispering good-bye to mine.

Just be careful.

My heart is right there on this dusty pavement.

As his lips gently brush and kiss my blissfully closed eyelids, it's as if  he is slowly smoothing out every single laugh line and rumpled wrinkle.

He sees more of me in that one careless, dainty gesture.

Bare and only human.

As he slowly pressed his lips onto my eyelids,
forehead,
then lingeringly onto my nose,
cheek and
finally,
my lips.

I then only realised how the seconds and minutes stretch out curving, meandering into  ∞.
Half-moons of barely whispered promises but heard all too well.

As I ruefully reminisce, ribbons of myself lay on dusty floors.
For you are never meant to live in the past.

Not again.

Then why do I feel the ghost of your lips dancing on mine?

Glancing at the clock, which sees the hour hand finally resting at 12.

I sigh, time will enduringly wisp every fibre of your being into the next day.
No matter how magical the time was, it will slip through your outstretched fingertips.

Even if you grasp, pull or tear, you are most likely to hurt yourself beyond recognition.

You will be blinded from the blurring & vague finger paintings of the past and now.
Bloodied, cracked hands that will always fumble with shards of the past.

And it will happen again.
Once, twice and then indefinitely.

In those infinite string of moments, you only then realise.

Your heart only beats alive in the dusty backward of time.

Let us keep the vestige of the past,
Let the very dust settle on our cracked hearts,
Let the yellowing pages yellow.
Let time dissipate and gently kiss the flakes of us into
*nothing.

You see, someone who can make you the happiest.

Can also make you the saddest.

Oh, the irony ****** even the places in my heart that I thought were impervious.

Seems like anything that will tickle the corner of my mouth upwards or downwards simply walks straight into me.

Unannounced and unanticipated perfection of untitled somethings.

And before you know, I've caught you in my arms.

*Just
like
that.

It is shocking, bewildering when someone special kisses your skin with their fingertips.

It is like everything that they ever wished to say is said, whispered right into your soul.

Dissolving, permeating slowly through the layers and walls you have built.

And when your fingertips dances across it, in that instant, the world's momentum ceases.
Time metaphorically tinkles backwards and there you are.

With him.

Your head blissfully at the crook of his neck. One hand laced with his.

And that's when you know.

Your heart is his.

And his heart is yours.

Truth is, I have this tiny vestige of a daydream.

Where, I postulate and wistfully theorise that the heart's volume is infinite.

Its depths are unknown.

For its an empty oblivion; patiently waiting to be
filled, filled and filled.

And, you prove that.
*Every. Single. Day.

Imagine how utterly terrifying would the whole universe be if there was a faceless clock.
Just faceless clocks.

That dictated the way earth shall be lived in the most minimalistic sense.

No hour hand, no tinks, no tick-tocks and no numbers.
That will allow us to regretfully or mercifully go on.

The gears and everything are in place.
But there is
nothing.

Just silence that will deafen your ears.
Silence that your screams cannot pierce.

Yes, that is me now.
I have no bearing, no sure sense.
Simply lost.

*Tick-tock.

Those moments where you feel like time and whatever makes up that infinite momentum is suspended.

The whispers and loud susurrations of the world fall into silence and that the only sounds that permeate your soul and ears are the breaths between you and I.

Yes, this is no exception.

I was happy yesterday, but I am happier today.
The -ier abbreviates for porterhouse steak, red wine, damp suede shoes, red lips, witty banter, petrichor and most of all, *her.

With her dewy cream and roses completion,

Eyes that you could wonder for all eternity for what they see and hold.  

Lips stained with the most alluring red.

Her thick hair is braided onto the side, wispy tendrils frame her face.

A crisp white three quarter sleeved shirt and faded blue jeans cuffed just above her dainty ankles.

Just when I thought a woman has never looked so stunning.

She smiles.

And suddenly time ebbs away, it doesn’t halt suddenly. Momentum of the earth just ceases.

This is when I truly and utterly have fallen for her.

And that realisation unpauses everything that has stopped.

You cannot stop the inevitable.
Oh and I don’t plan to.

I have precisely not one but two stalkers, two malaise menaces in my hands. Well, not quite literally.

Its all in my head, you see.

They pervade my robust, iron clad, sheer willpower.

Hmph, not really.

The two little rascals, attractive ones at that, present themselves during frenzied times of scattered notes, inked fingers with frustration crashing in the air.

Frustration grows ever-so-slightly when they efficaciously whisper to you, it will only be five minutes.

They leech time off my circadian clock, inevitably painting black under my eyes.

A pair of smooth-talking liars, the scourge of the Student Underworld.

Their flamboyant, beguiling gestures of distractions, alas, it is far too much even for
my  
mind.

Even doctors cannot prescribe a medical concoction to rid me of these pests!

Beware these criminals!

They need to be obliterated, removed, pruned away from us, young innocent seedlings.

I introduce you to... ughh...

*Mr & Mrs Procrastination.

Don’t say sorry.

I reach down to the grass and snap off the stem of a daisy.

The sweet tang of it seeps into the air.

I give it to him.

“See, can you understand now? I cannot sew this.. daisy back. I simply can’t. I cannot put it back together or let it wander into its niche; its sun dappled world.”

Unforgiving silence fills in the blanks of all the words we wish to say.

I step closer to him.

“But you know what, when Spring comes in 365 days, after 525600 minutes of rain, grey skies, ice, hail, sun, blue skies and clouds, it will come back alive."

And if, oh, god forbid that you are going to draw your last breath.

I’ll say “Tell the stars and sun hello for me.”

I won’t cry. I swear. I promise.

But I’ll cry now, if you leave because you are still alive but you are ignoring the screams of your heart.

Please, just stay.

Love, laugh, cry, scream, smile with me till your heart finally stops.

That's why I can truly whisper to myself "I'll let you go now."

Now, its my heart that is crying.

Splintering into fragments.

Forgotten pieces.

Irreplaceable remnants.

Into dust.

And then beyond any doubt,
into
*nothing.

Eyes glowing fleet with a sweet, tender smile,
Warmth ruffles my naïve heart, a spring bloom.
Red ringlets of blush tickle for a while,
Unfurling petals whisper, panic looms.

A veil over sight all is crystal clear,
My destiny is right in front of me.
You smile, a thousand memories appear,
Each steady step, one hand; love flutters free.

A puff of white hair, which you stroke gently,
Crinkled fingertips laced, a soft glow gleams.
Your eyes slowly trace my face differently,
Clouds of shyness and a scarlet blush beams.

If this were true love, judgment speaks of lies.
My lovely fairytale has no goodbye.

The parentheses of his smile seem to be an infinity of quotation commas to a story perhaps their little tale. So, it won’t ever end.

As he laughs, his special lady seems to pause for a second before returning it back.

The balmy wind flows in where who knows where, I wish and cross my fingers that it would whisk away those secret whispers between them.

For it seems to be the ingredients for happiness.

There comes that shiver of such tangible affection and love again.
It is enveloping them everywhere, its inside their eyes, it permeates the very air.

I watch her meticulously strain the tea, patiently waiting for time to pass for it to "steep and infuse” which  I quote from her as those words escape her lips. And finally when its ready she announces it with such happiness, I cannot help but feel metaphorical little rays of sunshine kiss my skin.

And the irony is that the sky is painted black with the stars as a sprinkle of sparks. Its precisely one of the reasons I fell for her.  

I have said it before.

But I’ll say again, I can write it till the very ink bleeds across the yellowing pages.

Like time and the concept of love, change is infinite and boundless.
And that is when I notice the half-drawn infinite symbol on her window.
There is a gap in it.
That little gap smarts me, I carefully join up the two lines and there, it is now complete.
Whatever that dances on infinity will never lose its way.

I adore the inexplicable manner rain makes everything look synonymous with pulchritude.
Grass would suddenly be tinged in the nicest green.
How the wooden fences is stained dark; every chip and grain.
The thin branches of trees laced with droplets of rain; surrendering to gravity.
Suddenly inanimate objects become alive.
So, when you walk in the rain, let it seep, bleed and meld into your skin, let it kiss your very soul.
Its a wonderful contrast between the vibrant hues, lucid drops of water and dark.
You are like the rain.
You bring out my brightest and chain me in darkness somewhere-else.
Its a paradox.  
We are simply eclectic, contradictory beings.
Whilst someone’s wisp of life escapes them, someone else is inhaling its first.
So, if I love you, will you love me back?

Her words were thrown in the air.

I stood there.

I walked home.

I unlocked the door.

I stripped off my damp coat, unstrung my scarf.

I collapse and sit on the cold, cold wood floors.

As I do so, that’s when my metaphorical heart splinters into the tiniest of pieces.

Anatomically real hearts don’t break, they cannot realistically do so.

Which is precisely why this is so god-**** hard for it to heal back.

As you are fighting against a beautifully lucid and meticulously choreographed illusion.