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Louise Aug 2018
Sometimes,
I can't help but sit, sigh and stare at nowhere
and wish, wonder and probably wait
for a different meeting
for a different time
for a different place.
our hearts less heavier,
our houses a little bit nearer
our smiles much more brighter,
the worries are somewhere farther.

But most of the time lately,
I wish I can just ******* forget you.

until the next life or the after.
Louise May 2018
I believe I've written of the sun, sand and sea countless of times;
even when it's pouring down and even when the cold december wind is tugging at the strings of my heart.
The last time I wrote of my summer,
I told myself that the next time I would, it would be from experience and not of make-believe.
Why should I write of the seagulls' noises when all I ever heard this year were the familiar chirps of the Maya birds?
I just trick myself into thinking that the chirps of a Maya is much more relaxing anyway.
Why should I write of the heat that burns past through my skin then onto my heart when I get to feel the same heat while walking the streets to and from our old house?
I could achieve my dream tan by doing that twenty times a day.
Why should I make poems out of the waves and shells when life here in the city is enough to drown me lifeless but could also leave me so dry at the same time?
Even more ironically, I never went out of my room—my safe shell that I never actually felt safe in.
April and May, farewell and apologies.
I took you for granted and now I must wait another weary, barren year and daydream for my summer.
All I wanted was to go to the beach.
Louise Mar 2018
It is 1985. I wake up from an afternoon nap, about to get ready for another night-out.
You see, I'm a typical distressed teenager just trying to make it out alive through music and art.
I take a shower while The Cure is blasting along the trickles of water.
I take my rollers, hairspray and flashy eyeshadows, glamming up for a night packed with new wave music, dancing with other teenagers who share my sentiment.
A night free of alcohol or any narcotics; the loud, booming music is enough to give me that high.
Oh, take me back to the era fit for my old soul.
Louise Mar 2018
Summer come, but already
her heart is dropping temperature
yet again,
already her hair is blasting across your shoulders down to your arms, your hesitation and your unhinged desperation of her heat.
Her bones scattered all over your
almost-said words and in the crevices of your proud, unfazed deceit.
The fine threads of her sanity tangles and knots up in every nooks, crannies and cul-de-sacs inside you.
In your bedcover, your clothes,
the chair.
She is drifting away.
Louise Sep 2017
Before we know it, it will be another year.
A crisp, brand new air, an integration
of the piercing cold and blazing warmth.
Feel that tinge of satisfaction left by the aftermath of the rain and sun's
constant tug-of-war.
By then, my hair will be longer.
The bags under my eyes could become puffier or I could do something about them over the next summer, who knows.
But April and May can be deceiving.
They can make girls like me do things
normal girls only does in November.
I might crack a fortune cookie
or smash my head onto a crystal ball.
Just trying my luck. Or lack thereof.
That's if I decide that I no longer fancy
dancing to the sound of raindrops in July.
Hopefully I will grow taller, like your girls.
You've always adored my complexion
and I've always wanted it to be
a little darker; like that of light cinnamon.
By then, I wouldn't have to blink twice
when you tell me that you miss gazing into my eyes, the same way you yearn the feeling you felt when staring at the moon when you were a child.
Or I wouldn't have to force a smile out of my weary lips when you try to tell me how you're in love with me, with your lips falling into a grim line right after.
My eyes will be unfaltering, unchallenged.
My ribs will become protruded, I know.
The bags under my eyes, more pronounced.
I will probably become skinnier, and I might not really do something about it over the next and summers and more.
As this passing September air is a quick breath and a stained glass window to the ensuing months and switching seasons,
until it kisses the back of the hands of departing August, pull it closer to the end,
I will no longer have to wonder.
I write about September in hopes that
when I meet you in the eye,
I will be what you were wishing for.
But I'm afraid how my monsters are slowly becoming scarier each day.
Scarier for you to look in the eyes.
Scarier for you to dance with, even.
Next september, everything will be sweeter.
I am helplessly lusting over the mystery that
lies between all these tears
and couple more months of misery.
Next september, I'll be prettier.
I'll be stronger, smarter and braver.
And we'll be full of memories or regrets, more poems or everything all at once.
We'll be everywhere or nowhere to be found. Maybe they'd find us in one of the clouds or in a full theater without sounds.
By then, I hope I'm still not dead.
I hope our love is still burning bright red.
Edited
Louise Jul 2017
A kind of love so good,
you wanna go on a quest to read every love poem, rob them off their most poignant words and rewrite them yourself if you could.
A spark so bright,
you know you can't turn away without igniting it even more and back down without putting up a ******* fight.
A love so real,
it can make the angels mad, even deranged and drive the saints to ****.
A touch that stings,
it could make a wilted flower bloom once again and make a voiceless siren sing.
A kiss that sears,
the price you have to pay for a love this good is a mistake that you would regret for years.
But it's time I run away from the shadows of your uncertainty.
I can no longer be crippled by your feigned affection and fantasy.
I pray that you, too, can escape from the false perfection you've molded and carefully crafted inside your head.
All that is white will eventually turn red and baby there will always be a dead end,
this is ours.
Louise Jun 2017
When his fingers traversed along my freezing and weary arms,
cruised a little further inside the trenches of my spent thighs and
navigated across the tropics of my exhausted back,
I could only close my eyes and think,
"oh, this dream voyage has to be a dream indeed".
    Back then,
I knew that my worst nightmare would be his touch steering away from my aching and craving skin.
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