And he closed his eyes.
Drawers are shut gently, curtains drawn back.
Silence stilled heartbeats & pulses.

She refused to close her eyes nonetheless.

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.

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

Crushed strawberries bled into freshly-washed white shirts.

Fingerprints upon hand-prints.

Breaths captured between smudges of sunlight.

The wink of bare rib-cages between hands and curious eyes.

Shyness blooms between gaps bubbling between
freckled noses & mouths.

Let gravity do its damage.

On some days, I write bolder, thicker & harder, just to prove not everything is empty and blank.

And that my words are just as heavy and all raw edges like *yours.

You absolutely do not get the honor of burning a numerical value on her self-worth.

You certainly do not get to measure that assumption from the hem-line tailored on her thighs. Or the daring dresses she wore because it made her feel a different kind of beautiful.

She is not asking for it. What she will demand for is neither your attention nor stares. She wants respect.
Can you do that?

Oh, and when you are emboldened by your 'witty' validation that she  is a ‘****’ or of promiscuous nature, all down to the clothes she wears on her back.

Don’t.

Cotton stitches against warm skin. (She was enjoying a walk.)

Silk swathes on slightly chilled bones. (She forgot her jacket on a Wednesday night out with friends.)

Thick knits adorn even more layers of cotton. (It was a winter night.)

Their cold lips pursed by the late hour, scream silence.

With that validation, you normalise and excuse the acts of ****, soul-destructing ****** offences.
For you have blamed the victim.

You excuse a depraved psychological state.

The veins that choked from ice and no’s. You have forgotten.

Rapists and ****** offenders do not get the luxury of being excused.

Neither do you, ****.

And he held her hand so tight, she could feel how hard bones are. Even against flesh and blood.

She thought her bones may crack.

But it never quite occurred to her, he had been broken and is still *breaking.

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

Messy hair,
crinkled sheets,
it was a rough night of sleep.

And it is midnight again.
We will write the date different.
Breakfast will be slightly changed,
hair will be terribly ruffled on one day,
then fine on the next.

Our souls may sometimes be coloured blue,
for now,
it's mellow sunshine melded with silent notes of wistfulness.

The handful of stars dotting across the grey-navy blue sky will sometimes become an infinite sprinkle.

Rain.
Sun.
Raindrops & damp hair.
Sunshine dancing across our collarbones.

Closed eyelids, but unclosed heart.

Tired soul but it keeps say a quiet 'No' to
sleep.

Lovely days flit in between the not-so-good ones.

And it is twelve at night again.
My white heart painted the loveliest red has been
trying & trying
to say
'Hello' or was it.. goodbye
to
yours

*again.

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.

The distilled silence are like dusty mirror reflections of
my breaths
&
slow heart beats
in this terribly empty room.

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.

I would like to be that girl;
the protagonist that doesn't cry.
Where she is able to push aside fears and tears, like fog on a mirror.
Her hands aren't afraid to be ***** and ******.

But bitterness and anger drool stickily on mine.

Right now, I am what I am.
This is all you get.
And it's not up to myself
for you
to
want me.

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.

He had a heartbeat like a hummingbird.

Hold on a little longer.

Your veins need a pinch of time + a few more starry nights to become a little more impervious.

Oh, you are still fragile, but the kind of soft and all raw edges.

A bruise of a reminder that you have waltzed on broken fractures & bones of wishes hollowed out too soon.

And you are still here,

blood burnt out into alchemy.

You are quite like magic.

*We all are.

The man that never quite stop loving her.

In a flurry of hair and crimson cheeks,

"Why?"

He pauses and smiles a smile that he very well knows
it will never flicker the same on her lips.

"That's not the point, I simply love you with
no expectations;
one where
your heart takes the same fall as mine."

*Except that my outstretched fingertips
will catch
yours.

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.

The mouth is a killer, the sinner,
the kinder,
softer
part of you.

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.

I love you.

At least that is one true truth.

One that I can
always,

a l w a y s

come back
to.

And so, they ran as far as 7 year old muscles would let.

Cutting across the softened hues of green and pinks on the end of a day.

Where skinned knees were kissed with the warm promise that the smarting pain would be gone.

Pinkys said shy hellos under bed-sheet tents,
their hair haloed by the sunshine
Eyes brighter, and cheeks crimson and freckled,

all ready to take on the
great big world.

Blame is a highly, highly strange thing.
Latching onto anything, it sews itself into the weak, the strong, the inbetweeners.

{Like fire-flies to light. Vice-versa. }

Simply because the world needs a bad guy.

In the same way, we need good hearts.

Should there ever be a backward twirling of the clock gears, a paisley maze of metal and magic to occur,

every tear will trace back to its watery scars.
Even the ropes shackling hearts will fray,
shackles broken.
Bits and crumbs of dim memories become whole again.
Just as sweet.
And perhaps, the bad will seep back in.
The dead will open their eyes again.
Roughly stiched in wounds so long ago, where even the owner has forgotten to hem back up the stiches to the surface.
The white cotton thread would have never met the needle's eye.
A baby's nursery room may gather more dust than expected.

The scary, bold whisper of a truth is that pinning blame is careless.

You feel the slow *****; a smart of pain.

A sweet sting.

Just enough to draw blood to the surface, but not enough for a bandage.

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.

honey*,
I am no princess,
I am a queen.

The very last words of that one story,

the terribly short quote her fingertips traced on her wrists at 4 am then again at 11am.

The very last words to him.

Reminds her of

cold tea,

unfinished stories with no end

&
undone smiles.

Far too scared to write last words,
eventually she became one.

The irony is stinging.

Truthfully,
I neither have a lucid nor clear recollection of how we first met.

How my little heart took its fall blindly,
with wisps of hope edging around it,
don't you dare ask.
I don't know myself.

It's that one moment hazy and crinkled at the edges,
but its the very one that we adore when
it plays peek-a-boo
on
rainy days.

It is the kaleidoscope of little memories ribboned together that slowly unravel,
and
begin
to
dance on your closed lids.

All I know is there is a

beginning

& and &
no
end.

Not just yet,
not
in
*forever.

We had big dreams,
you and me.

You & I,
I mean.

Thing is, kid,
all of that lived and died
in
the backward
of
*time.

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.

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.

I'll like to think that we are all glass figures, people, whatever.
We are fragile, delicate, malleable when heated, at times we can be coolly transparent.
But the undeniable truth that we always come back to is that we can all
break.
Under pressure- the sort that splinters pieces of wide-eyed innocence and hope, the kind of disappointment so pale, you can see it in their skin- it results into little fissures of weaknesses spidering out into ugly cross-roads. Which I think we will inevitably walk on.
And suddenly, with those gaping cracks,
we are no longer quite so impervious to
the bad or the good.
Frankly, as sickeningly cliche this may sound, it is universally accepted that it is the very inside that will start to bleed into those crossroads.
So, yeah, it is the inside that counts.
And I wish I could have learnt that without cutting my hands
red and raw
on these broken shards of glass.

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.

The sunshine dabbles on my skin.

Pale with wistfulness. It somehow reminds me of bitten back lips and swallowed words. The sharp edges of each letter paper cut there and here.

I stay a little longer, motionless, in this hazy light.

I'll come back alive.
I will be living once more.
Just give me a pinch of time.
That will do.

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.

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.

A smirk hanged off his lips as if it was a semi-colon.
;
Half-opened lips as if in midsentence, when in fact he has said nothing.

And all this time,
his eyes was on you.

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.