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.

Once I saw an x-ray of a heart and I was alarmed by its smallness, its translucence.
A thing we ask entirely too much of.

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.

Forgiveme,butIdon'twishtowritewithspaces.
Itlookstoomuchlikeme.

The spaces between my breaths are sighs.
Bare with only tears echoing into them.
The e m p t y s p a c e between my ribcage and heart gnaws slowly deeper into
me.

Broken,cracked&irreparable&lone;ly.

Whilst we had that pavlova frosting on our lips and noses,
I had a Pavlovian reaction that made me gasp.

I like you.
I fancy this gorgeous, wide-eyed, laughing boy
who has the kind of notes in his laugh that makes me fundamentally
agree
with the very fact,
it is okay to laugh at myself.

This utterly imperfect being looking like he does not give a ****
is
colouring
my soul
yellow.

And my lips could never say more Thank you s onto the Cupid's bow of his lips.

For, he taught me how to be happy by myself, with only my shadow in sunlight.

To colour in the blank edges of soul with something a little gorgeous and a pinch of something rather

*different.

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.

Out of the very edging of my eyelashes;
the little wisps of my mind

flits this pinky-promised wish.
This
childish thing                                          
                                      mingling with these balmy summery notes.

I cannot wait for those white, uncreased sheets to be infused
   with your                      
          little smirks & laughter.

For these two tea cups to ****** its wonderfully ***** of a sound to lull those lazy days to awakeness.

Your shoes right behind my foot-steps,
c r i n k ling,
creasing
snaps of autumn itself.

A peck on the nose between the gaps of our once-shy feet.

Frankly, this feeling of vulnerability and weakness is so very consuming.

The undeniable fact that my heart is puppeted by those gossamer wisps of daydreams and
of course,
you
remains etched in my skin.

I cannot quite
let you go
because that would
simply
mean
I will let me go too.

Tears, anger, sadness,
they just want to
be
alive
too.

If you can feel pain;
the soft slicks and flicks upon places
you thought
were
impervious,

just close your eyes,
and let bittersweet memories ribboned and edged with yellowing creases infuse into the little emptiness within you.

Just cautiously remember,
no,
actually
be
silly-crazy-reckless
with this,

remember that you can feel happiness too.
Those untitled somethings,
just please,
please,
         let them dance & flit across your heart.
Let their little etchings of 'Happy' remain there infinitely.
∞

There was a time I hadn't met eyes with you.

Starry it was before and simply galaxies after.

You begin to realize love is a home, no longer a word or two syllables.

The shy kiss, the blurting of I love you.

Being the voice when the other cannot speak.

Tears & sobs catching at the hinges of swollen throats when you both know it is time to let go.

And let go as we may, but I'll hold on to what we have made.

as
I am being  
b r      o     k   e n  
for
someone-else.

Sentimental tugs of the sunshine plays on my bare skin and white sheets,

wake up.

Today, the next and the very next will be richer than dreams.

B r ok
                                en  Hearts,
you try your very best

with those unspoken, silenced words etching into your rib-cage,
unconscious smiles with dazed eyes of sweet, sweet memories blanketing your vision,

to jigsaw them back into something like before.

Before, your eyes winked at mine.
Before, your fingertips said shy Hello's to mine.

But really, it is just
pale, pale imitations.

Just wait till someone colours it

red.

It will be lovely,
no
lovelier.

I promise.

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.

My lips have been kissed by the white lies
etched on the back of my eyelids.

Even the lulling tendrils sleep cannot blank it out.

I see it every single time the time strikes midnight.
Slowly but surely it mingles into my very fingertips.

Filling the empty space in me.
Which is everywhere.

If I said: " No, I am not cracked, bruised
and
that
my very soul hasn't been diluted by the bittersweet goodbye from your lips to mine.

White lie 1.

When your footsteps walked away, mine wasn't hesitating, cold and lost.

White lie 2.

If I said I didn't pray for rain, so my tears will meet their own.

White lie 3.

And above all,

If I ever say
" I didn't love him with every breath I have taken and will take in this universe that doesn't quite feel that starry and vast anymore."

Sweet heart, that is
white lie
∞
.

To say 'I love you" to someone is never truly easy.
The 'I love you' to the right someone, that is.

Three little words is

A promise on the edges of their heart.

It is the little laugh line right beneath their cheek.

It's the feeling of home enveloping and dipping
into
the
empty      spaces
of
their   b r e a t h s.

-*11:15pm, 23rd January

She wants to feel a warmth;
the stirrings of something far too good, too much for her heart.

Sunshine; this hazy thing that marks shadows of the hour hand, lingers on my cold, slightly lonely fingertips.

I made two cups of coffee, yet again
Only one met my lips.

The other one went
*cold & colder.

Where exactly does my words go?
What happens to them in this starry, messy universe, we call home?

Sometimes, they etch themselves on the little edges of your heart.
Other times, they remain an incessant tune in someone's ear.
Its notes silently whittle away an unwanted scar.

The flitting alphabet of their voice behind your eyelids even when the dark envelopes you.
Sometimes, it fits safe and sound between the lines of your very fingerprint.

Others sink, permeate through your very skin, making a home out of you.

The artfully crafted letters, hemmed with that moment.
It lives and breathes in the sweet pockets of something we call
memory.

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.

Little did I know how the sunshine can dapple and dance across your closed eyelids in such a way.

Little did I realise how the nudging between shy elbows
could
lead
to
this
rhapsodic sweet thing
that
breathlessly
quicken
heart-beats
and
pale cheeks to crimson.

Little did I know,
how much I have
fallen
till
my lips said
Hello
to
our cheek.

And oh my,
did it make me gasp at how right it was,

*it
    is.

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.

She had a very sweet heart & a tooth.

Which one turned bad first?

You tell me.

And I realized how far you could pull my heart in ∞ & a half ways,

you could break me like a pinky-promise.

Little delicate china pieces adorning worn-out shoes.

But goodness,
it has just occurred to me that

we are
stronger
than
we know
of.
And
we love more than we could ever imagine.

The husky catch in his words sinks, dapples and brushes your skin.

(And his hands are still in his pockets.)

Without any more words, I liked my body; the skin, the rusted edges, the ribboned ends of veins and blood more than I ever did in that moment.

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.

Love will come back to you in nameless ways.
Pale imitations of it finds itself in buttery cookies
& all kinds of sweetness.

In the catch of someone's laugh.
Your fingertips try to recognise their rough & sharp edges.
It is not theirs .

It is the hum of summer hot against your skin.
Though, the fire burns brighter inside of you.

It comes back, even if the night speaks of ravens and inkiness.

Disappointment,
saccharine sweet and bitter.

This inexplicable thing
seeps and tickles
into
the empty spaces
you
hope with crossed fingers
he
will
fill.

A slow knife that graces across the infinite gossamer wisps of daydreams that meanders your heart.

Slow.

Soft.

Slow.

Soft.

B        r         o                    
               k      e    n.

C r a c k e d.

This certain stillness, inertia of silence pools in my ears.
         My voice slowly becomes            nothing.

Permeating, crumbling, dissolving, cracking this skin.
                                                                ­    Aren't I stronger?  

The syllables of the sentence ebbs into a fade in my mind.
Now, it is just the      empty      spaces      between the words.

Breaths come s  l  o  w ,  languid,  waves of letting    go.

Heavy infuses into the light.

Memories of sweetness
are
blinked
away
              by         glassy eyes.

The type of moments that ribbons and edge the corners of your vision.

My lips barely forms the 'bye' I've been dreaming of.
My fingertips couldn't touch them once more.

This inebriation comes soft and slow.
It is the drunkenness that leaves you begging for more
and half of heart wishing for it to stop.

How could it though?

I cannot wish with      half a heart.                            
With half of me?

It is a ballad for all those cracked hearts whose notes will
kiss you
away
into dust.

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.

I imagined the cutting words that escaped from my lips, multiplied it by 1,
(I remembered the first time I smiled because of you.)
it stung very sweetly.

Then, x2, guilt heavy and dense pillowing under the guise of comfort.

x3 I still remember how my voice sounded when I said Yes,
it's still the truth.

Another time, just for good measure.

"Hold my hand
Her quiet eyes widened,

and a little question mark
peek-a-boos
at
the edges of her lashes.

?"

His fingertips laced into hers.
Nail against nail.
Wrist to wrist.

There, I can almost feel your heart beat.

It is the surest thing
next to
gravity
in this
s t a r r y
universe,
sweet-heart.

Sleepy eyes,
a truthful tongue.

Slow breathing,
a curious heartbeat.

Eyelashes and hair;
a messy scrawl.
Reminiscent of careless ink sketches.

{you're a kind of beautiful.}

She had violets blooming in her eyes.

They hold the night
and
a daybreak's first breath.

Giving up:

It is when you look at the chef's knife at a strange hour wondering if it is sharp enough to draw blood. You already know it is, but the white lies beg to stay within your skin.

Don't you dare say I gave up, or I am giving up.

1. Especially when I cry with anger glassing over my eyes.
Bleeding out all the bad truths & rusty faults, for a better day.
I have not given up if I look for truth over sweet fiction.

2. How ferociously warm and red my cheeks are. The kind of red reminicent of berry stains in tumbled laundry. Truth is they were slapped by a ghost's hands.

Or when I found out that hot tears and hot showers feel the same.

Do not say I lack the strength to stay here, when my veins dance to a heartbeat; loud & defiant.

Don't ever say to someone: 'You gave up easily' unless you know the exact & imperfectly precise way their thoughts align into dizzy constellations.
Like the way you know the back of your hand.

*Don't.

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.

In these writings, we lie.

A smidgen of red, black, navy-blue ink over truth.  

Cross outs over uglier words, dotted full stops to string the infinite memories.

To make broken glass and porcelein cups whole again.

The kind of facts we did not wish to know, the kind that numbed your veins even in the summer.
We paint them white.

We are liars.
But you were my first *truth.

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.

She cannot quite cease envisaging herself with long socks over cold ankles
on creased sheets,

pen between fingertips,  
notebook sandwiched between him and her soul.

With his closed eyelids and sounds of slow breaths
spilling ink
                                                            ­    across b l a n k pages.

Sadness; this heavy thing begins to silt through my body.

Threatening to weigh me down.

Till my very heart is on the stone-cold ground.
Till *time itself sews itself into this space in my chest.

Pathetic, vulnerable fetal position twists my everywhere.

You can scoff, call me weak.

I dare you.

However,
say it when you feel the death of something so acutely.
- I refer to it as something as you don't lose someone.
They are very much alive in the memories.-    

The moments dusty and blurry at the edges.
The same ones that gently seam your eyelids every single night.

Compelling you to live in the dusty, yellowed past.
The choice becomes nothing but
yours.

But it isn't mine either.      

My stubborn heart still beats with something that is defined as life
but
doesn't
quite
feel like
                                                             i   t.