Honey seeps off the tips of our sugar-dotted, pastry flaked fingers.

oh, your lips are
just
as
sweet
as
your soul.

I cannot wait for that someone,
those little sprinkles of moments where I can tell him about the scar on the bottom of my left foot.
The crinkled and creased edges of my heart gently tugged out,
finally he can see the dinky mark on my right knee.
Slowly, the blemish on my lower back can meet his eyes.
Sure, my cheeks will be crimson,
but,
hey, I found Brave hiding,
it is peek-a-booing at me,
now to
you,

sweets.

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.

Her eyelids cracked open slightly.

Momentarily, they slowly close again.
Sleep was still languidly dancing across it.

Then she sees sunlight peeking through the little gaps of her curtains.

Dust-motes whisper 'Good morning' as they flit in the buttery-white light.

And, goodness me,
just like
that
her sleepy gaze
met
*magic.

My eyelids are so sleepy,

my soul is dreamy; bubbling effervescently.

Little pops of airiness,
those little gasps and slow breaths
fill the empty gaps
between
upturned lips.

And his fingertips kisses yours,
  your wrists
&
then the tip of your nose,

as if he is saying
"Yes, mine too."

I'll hold your hand through the wizened wrinkles; even if your beautiful mind will eventually crinkle.
Crinkled & crumpled into creases too deep for sunshine to peek through.
(My fingertips will still slowly but surely fix it.)

Even when the hair tickling my bare shoulders, collarbones & necks on lazy sunday morning is no longer quite the same.

I'll be right here.

As her fingertips brushed through the fragile pages;
familiar notes of handwriting flit onto her lips, then her ears. She could almost hear his voice again.
The thin, ribboned memories sweetly tie themselves into the hollow spaces. The one on the left side of her wrist, the little corner behind the eye socket.

And especially, the ones where she holds her breath, hoping her very heartbeat would be enough.

Enough rhyme & reason to stay here.

Don't be scared to write in ink.
Bleed your thoughts,
let it carelessly infuse between the spaces of blank paper.

You see, sweet-heart,
at least one sliver of your soul will not feel so

*e mp ty

It seems like the cells in the spine of my body ache for another to fit against it.

Perhaps not a mirror image or unflawed symmetry,
but
rather just a presence.
Something beyond the lilt of a shadow and shallow breaths.

My fingertips unconsciously linger & idle on the place on my collarbone. Left side, a kiss's width from my chin.

Notice, the word, 'place?' I felt a tad bigger of a human, a bigger piece of this starry starry universe with you.

Eyelashes still flutter, giving way to soft gravity. Hoping your eyes would be reflected against mine again.

I am so very human
with & without
*you.

We cannot only think of the pretty things in life,
then where would we find ourselves?

You are the most wondrous dizzying
mess of cells,
deoxyribonucleic acid,
erythrocytes,
words,
sounds,
murmurs,
thoughts & b
                           r
                                                 e a t h s.

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.

Clearly, darling, you do not understand why
I love you.

All of you.

Stare at these two cups of coffee or look into my eyes.
Shuffle your feet, tangle your fingertips in your hair.
I don't care,
just listen and
let my words
meld into that beautiful mind.
Okay?

For a person to be here, it took years.
The little wisps of hair that always gets into your eyes.
The laugh-line underneath your cheek.

It all took an immeasurable number of tick-tocks.

In those infinite string of days was hours.

In those hours, there were minutes.
And yes, in those minutes are seconds.

Now, don't roll your eyes just yet.
Dotting in between the mellow epochs are experiences, dreams, unspoken wishes behind closed eyelids, tears, laughter crinkling your lips.
The creasing of the edges of your heart.
The sound of your very breaths in a lonely room.

If you think in such numbing detail, eventually I found myself happily and hopelessly tangled in those strings of little infinities.

And then, I fell in love with you.

It's simple really.

"You're a very selfish human being."
The mirror
did
not
utter
a
word or breath back.

Never have I felt so acutely
a l o n e.
How can such an   empty, empty   feeling swallow every little bit of me?

As I stare at the ceiling, darkness blurs and dips into the spaces of my vision.
I can barely make out the corners of where each wall connects to each other.

Inevitably, I wander how something so seemingly vast and big can come to an end; closure.

A limit.

I feel so very small.

How about me?

I feel very lost indeed.

You remind
me
of
sweet tea,

honey cornflakes on sleepy, sunday mornings.

That hell of a smile is like thick socks over cold ankles.

Your 'head back; don't give a ****'
laughter
is
like
little sunshines
saying
'Hello'
to
all
the dark, empty
s p a c e s
in me.

You remind me of artfully ruffled hair,
messy white sheets from pillow fights.

You, sweets,
have the loveliest soul.

People tell me with hushed lips and pained irises,
(pain really only flickers and quietly sinks deep within the absolute oblivions of you.)
that it will get better.
"You grieve, I have done it. Every person has."

Not for this one.

Not for him or her that is.

She had the sort of wittiness that would cut right though that
buttery feeling of warmth
wisped from
one hell of
a
smile.
Guess whose?

He had one of the loveliest voices, one that lulls your tired eyelids to much needed sleep.
A voice that will inexplicably grasp your fingertips when you feel utterly lost and breathless with pain.

And, I could go
   on,  
on
&
on.

Just that my very voice will be cracked
by
the
sweet, bitter
goodbye
whispered by
the yellowing memories
of    

*them.

You make me feel pretty,

delicate as fairies, a bit cheekier than usual

in an old faded grey -stretched by the tumbles of the washing machine and dulled by the sunshine- t-shirt and old boxer shorts.

I'll be your 4am dream.
Could you be my 7pm kiss on lipstick-faded lips?
And fingertips meeting yet again at 11pm?

She is an orphan of love.

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

Little bits of fallout are scattered at my very feet.

Mingling with dust motes and spilt tears.

These little shards of time.
Whether, they were fragments of clocks & antique watches
or
the very iridescent pockets of dusty memories.

I am not sure.

Few things that I do know is,
please do not try to pick them up.

If you do, be careful, be cautious.
Hold your breath
if
you need to.

One little cut is the doorway
for
all
those creased and crinkled memories
to
tip-toe
in.

I did both.
I held you in my hands.
Wisps of your warmth flitted through my outstretched fingertips.

You flowed gently in my veins,
kissed my ribcage,
gently nudged my heart.

Then,
it
was
n o t h i n g.

I gasp on some days at this emptiness that fills me up.
The silence lends itself to hear my words;
the
truth.

I
           had
you
  in
the
dusty      
past.

The present is one my eyelids cannot close to,
not without your heart-beat saying
'I am here'
to
mine.

Little bits of fallout-
burnt and crinkled memories
mingled
with
shards
of
you
then
*me.

There's always an
inexplicable something
about all things old.

Maybe, these yellowing, crinkled, slightly forgotten
-slipped off the inky azure of the mind's corners-
have felt the way a pair of lips
moves & crinkles
as
they make
wide-eyed wishes and closed mouth good-byes.

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.

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.

Is this how happiness feel like?

Oh, the way my lips gently curve upwards is like..

Sleepy eyes kissed airily by sunshine,
                                                                ­               buttering toast on a bitter cold winter's day.
                                                   When it is so very cold,                                                            ­                
every breath feels like toothpaste and mint.    
It is the worries being unknotted.                                                       ­ 

                                                               ­                  Little inexplicable sparks that can light even the darkest        souls.

Softly, her winter-bitten cheeks lifted
up,
up and up.

On some days, the sky is greyier as if it is shaded in by a 6B pencil.

Black as charcoal with a very shaky weak wrist.

Everything that passes through chapped & soured bitten-back lips tastes like weak tea.

(I think sugar cubes were all eaten.)

Oh, your head hurts, aches, like bad bruises from hitting the sharp edge of the table.
Cotton bandages and one light kiss above the left eyebrow helps.

And your chest is too tight, the kind of feeling from shoelaces knotted hard against your ankles.

*Use safety scissors.

She has felt the rough edges
of
anger marrying sadness
against her
front
teeth.
The way happy tasted on her tongue.
And she has yet to find a right constellation of syllables for love.

"You are inane,
sweet-heart.
   That's why I love you."

"Are you calling me all things, unintelligent, nonsensical and lacking sense?"

Her eyebrows knit together; the corner of her red lips twitch upwards slightly.

A soft line brackets her mouth.

Parentheses to all the words she has ever voiced and will say.

"Well, clearly not then. I was just checking."

His eye winks; curving into a
tipsy,
upside down moon crescent.

He shyly looks at her.

Everything seemed to quieten to this lovely silence;
a stillness which is pierced by
his
own
steady and sure heartbeat.

By the way her nose twitches slightly and her red lips flutters a little,
she is just about to sneeze.

Ha. Adorable lady.

Bless you?

Bless those eyes that inexplicably managed to see through the
gossamer veils of good and the bad and
above all,
me.

Bless those crimson -No, it is actually a meld of strawberry and raspberry stains. But I won't tell her that just yet.- cheeks.

Bless that lovely soul that you have, the kind that lights up your eyes and peek-a-boos in your smile.

Sweet-heart, you could never be scary anyway.

& And &
bless that smile which can flicker one on my lips.

She sneezes, blissfully oblivious to all these little words that flit around her.

"Bless you, sweets."
He whispers, like
he
always,
always
does.

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.

So,
there we were under december lights and burnt out matchsticks,

looking like we've fallen in love tonight.

It was all eyelashes and hastiness drawn out.
You braided secrets & warm murmurs into my hair;
then a smirk into my left shoulder blade.

Your lips tasted like something,
someone

I wanted more of.

His lips told the stories of sleep & day-dreams.

Heavy on his tongue was a white lie.

Between the wink of his teeth was yet another.

And that is how she knows what truth tastes like.

Sweet-heart,*
pumpkin
munchkin,
beautiful.

"Yes,yes, it's so very lovely."
She slowly says;
as her fingertips dances across the wooden table.
"Now, hush those alarmed and worried eyes."

"But somehow,
when your lips speak
every syllable
of
my name;
it's like a lost and forgotten
piece of me
returned."

"Oh really?"
And like a full stop to a sentence,
he gives a
kiss
on
her crimson cheek
.

Sun + Shine
=
Sunshine
The sort of warmth that dapples across bared collarbones and shoulders.

Honey + Comb
=
Honey-comb
The scent of honey itself gently tugs the ribboned memories of summer.

Sweet + Mittens
The sort that are utterly perfect for hiding behind those little winks and sweetness peek-a-booing from that hell of a smile.
=
Smitten

You + I =

?

Could it be love ?

"Now, don't ask that like a question.
Say it like it should end with
a comma (,)
or
a semi-colon (;) at least!
He says carefully and measuredly.
His lips kissed the tip of her nose
like
a
full-stop
(.)

According to Chemistry,

one mole = 6.02 x 10^23.

Equivalent to
A computer counting 10 billions times every second would take 2 million years to reach that number.

And that is what we are made of,
the things that we kiss, hug and live in.

We are infinite
∞
universes ourselves.

Please, please don't let anything
dull
those
stars.

The ones that glitters your eyes,
the subtle ones that effervescently lights your very soul.
And above beyond,
the little winks playing
peek-a-boo
in
your
smile.

One of the bitter-as-burnt-toast kind of things in the world is when a writer's (1) book remains empty for a time where even their clock ceased
ticking."

{She used to write in the way flowers needed a cold snap before they could bloom.}

for the fact that
counting stars seem to be a pretty lonely thing to do.

One* day, I hope you know, sweet heart.
That words spoken from your lips to mine were tied by that smile
&
ribboned by wispy threads of memories,

the way you stared at me in off-handed moments;
your eyes
playing peek-a-boo with mine
across a place filled with beating hearts.

Mine was the fastest, that I do know.

That you pulled pieces of my heart apart
slow & soft
like a promise,

then jigsawed it back together.

But surely, it splintered into indecipherable pieces that escapes my hopeful fingertips.

The irony is I don't wish that upon you either.
I hope you do know,
I
really
*do.

Plastered wet t-shirts against bare skin, sun-shine evaporates H2O into transparent bubbles of ecstasy.

Bruised tailbones from

                                             f a
                                                   l
                                                      ling,
it­'s just your heart giving way to gravity.

Let it.

A deaf boy once wrote
"Mama, the silence is too loud."