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.

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.

He said he liked her hair long:
messy and unruly against
upturned cheeks and winks.
Braided secrets running
between lilac
blooms and plaits.

He tasted of *** and berries
Short. Sweet. Sin.

He is a wisp of an
inferno eating
all the words playing

tip toe

on her bitten lips.

Winter came as a painter’s
brush dipped in blue and grey.

Secrets that taste of sleep
syrup and honey  f r o z e
Drunk bees dance in
pale and grey roses.

A careless mistake came
in bruises, a stain of
an indigo sunset.

Rusty kitchen scissors snip,
snip, snipped away all
the bad, sugary tartness
eating a toothache.

Spring crept up on a
bare nape and shoulders
Her sun-baked eyes burned,
softened like butter,
maple syrup and something
harder than life.

I am not sure anymore.
I wonder if you ever thought of what I thinking right this moment.

Have you, sweetheart?
Because, if you have and still do,
please,
can I give you a
hug?

It hurts.
When  those two little words say 'meek hello's' to your ears, please don't laugh,
thing is,
it is an infinite number of fragments,
sweet heart.

It hurts.

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.

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

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
(.)

Eventually, the letters will just be letters.
{But they will always be mine.}

The syllables of lovely words will wilt a little. After all, blooms & daisies die.

His scent will never linger in your hair or on the edge of collars.
The kind of heart I wore on my sleeve will just be something I used to wear.

And he will wish someone Good night
in the way it is
not
a goodbye.

The shallow breaths & hot air.

We will need it later.

Pepper the words & syllables of anger over 'I want you' s.

Let all the unintentional bitterness settle and rest in chipped porcelain bowls.

We can wash it away with soapy bubbles.

P.S Remember oven mittens over hands that have already been burned.

I ran out of vanilla beans & rock sugar.

The porcelain bowls were left with this peculiar mush of bitterness.
An odd sharpness shuddering down into my empty stomach.
My fingers slipped:
I added a pinch too much of regret
&
a tablespoon
of sadness.

One day, airy concoctions that taste like summer memories will flit in and out of the kitchen window.

It's okay, & maybe if I am lucky someone's knee will playfully bump against mine.
Flour on noses & cheeks.

One day.

" But then again, life itself is a paradox. All in betweens and slow dances between yes & no.

Maybe what I would like is certainty and promise.
I want a sunday morning, 2:49pm phone calls,
unwashed dinner plates in the sink, two towels needing a tumble-dry.
Two tooth-brushes. Grocery bills worth two & a half stomachs.

To know the taste of someone's laugh.
Something that started as butterfly kisses
that burned into
                   a slow bloom of an inferno.

But Monday will come and life continues."

On the inside,

I'm a wonderland.

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?

Ever had a daydream that is so very lovely?

It softly and unexpectedly
ribbons and edges
your vision,
a smile dances & flits on your lips.

The starry universe's susurrations and whispers come to a silent ebb;
only daintily replaced by those
slightly creased and crinkled moments
&
future tick-tocking wishes.

It takes a full moment for it to wisp away.

Sadly, I do not know how long that moment ticks for.

Backwards or forwards?

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.

Chance, a wise man's wizened lips would say it is the one terrible thing,
a slightly wide-eyed, a little dreamer of yet another wise man said

"This lovely celestial thing that lives in the pockets of those shy hopefuls.
Who are all pressed lips, closed hands.
It is all those cold e m p t y spaces
within
your warm soul
no-one has
quite
lived in."

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.

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.

Sadness-

Just let this little thought meld into your mind; this labyrinth and zig-zags,
"S" in this word only, it's a half-infinity. It won't last quite as forever as you think.

Some infinities are smaller than infinities.

(Thank you)
For giving people the strange,
seemingly entitled right to hurt me.
Truth is, the difference between you and I is that:
Yes, I hurt you.
At least I can be the only one to blame.
And it is only me that can stitch sorry
into wounds if needed.
But you let them say all the ***** words for my ears.
And that's the one of the saddest realizations.
You let them, with ease & sweet sympathy.

It's . . .                                      
the scrape-your-knees,
messy,
yet simple misconstrued concept
of why is the sky blue sort of fancying.

It's silly, it's sweet as cherry pie and honey, this liking to him.

The type that lights up this warm hue in your eyes.

Which is by the way, the sort of effervescent feeling that curve your lips upwards so softly,
it slips past your lulling conscience and dazed & starry-eyed gaze.

Yes, its kissing stupidity; tickling with giggles.
Yes, your cheeks are hued crimson, to the tops of your ears.

But then, he simply says 'Huh, do I look like that too?'
and
winks
like
it's a little unspoken
'yes'
between
your lips.

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."

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.
∞

It's time to be happy,

happy to the tip of my toes & flicks of my rather short eyelashes.

Sorry
plays its incessant note

&

fades like wisps of smoke.

Like

s
             *p  
                  i
                       l
                           t
                                wine

on this

dust-mote
kissed
floor.

Red,
than
g o n e.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Stay a little longer," he said.

The wink of urge, the want she felt in her chest was sharp and careful.

Mirroring the tendency to stir up the settled sugar at the bottom of a stained coffee mugs and tea-cups.

Could you fill my sunday mornings
with little kisses on the nose
between yawns
&
let sleep dance across our eyelids
just for a little

while
more
?

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

Please just carefully pick up the jigsaw pieces of my heart on the floor.

Yes, I can put it back.
No matter, how much time etches into my very skin.
I
can
do
   it.

I just feel that if I can see the dust-motes on my shoes, I won't be able to get up again.

Just, please?

Please, also,
look at the little pieces too.

See your finger-prints on it; that was from the first time your fingertips kissed mine.

See that little memory crumpled and creased saying 'Hello?'

Whisper
a
soft good-bye.

*Please, sweets?

Soft gazes,
blind fingertips,
crooked smiles,
crimson cheeks;
cheekbones high with something inexplicable.

Happiness melding with the slow notes of hope, perhaps?

Something ribbons and flits in the air-
it's sweet, bitter but enchanting.  

I'll inhale it infinitely.
∞
Let happy seep into these starved veins.

Fill this empty, empty heart,
please
?

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.

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.