I always write every thoughts and every words that would come up in my head on any of my blank pages.

But this time, I stopped writing my thoughts and had not touched my blank pages anymore.

Because, I’m afraid I’ll write about you again.

What if we never
took the leap?
Would we still
be happy like this?

But if things may
turned out different,
And if things turned out
to be happier,

I’ll choose happy
than happier
if it’s with you.

I got used so much with your words that it’s the only thing that I’m trusting between us. But by the time you hold me with your arms, I never thought I could love you more than I am giving.

I admit, the world is really scary for us, yet there were no days that went by of me thinking ‘why’d you still choose me?’. But I never heard you stutter on how much you would love to choose me countless times.  

Here we are, hiding under our blankets while sharing the moments being alone together and how we just realized we’re too comfortable with our own skin.

But blankets can’t hide us long, can it?

I thought I could fill your missing parts with my broken pieces but I ended up breaking you more and slowly losing some parts of me.

then you promised
to stay
at my darkest
nights
but when the
morning came
and when the world
saw us,
you left me.

Can we talk about the rain?
Like how the sky cries so much
And how its cold wind
Touches your soul.

Or can we just share a drink?
While staring at the window panes
And while we sip
A nice cup of coffee.

Or can we just be together?
Without even talking to each other
And without even hearing anything
But the pouring of the rain.

I ran out of ink
To write poems.
So I used my tears,
Instead
To write more.

“Let’s stay like this”, I said while holding his hand while walking on the street with no one’s around but us. I looked up while watching the two birds sitting together on the top of the roof  thinking what’s in their mind while watching us holding hands together. And they flew. Glad they could fly together without worrying too much. I’m not waiting for any respond for I know he was unsure by the way he loosens his grip on my hand.

And yet he answered, “Sure.” I looked at him but he’s still facing forward. He never looked at me but he just smiled. He then tighten his grip and that made me know that he meant that.

I have always  
been afraid
To sleep
Thinking, i’d lose
You
In the morning

She still scribbled
your name
like it didn't
hurt.

She scribbled
more
until she was
fine.

How do you like poems for morning?
Like a hot coffee on your kitchen table
With a piece of sunny side up egg
Greeting you a good morning.

How do you like poems for morning?
To start your day with a little to ponder
And a little smile on the end note
And my own morning scribbles.

How do you like poems for morning?
Because it has always been midnight poems
And midnight thoughts
And midnight sadness.

How do you like poems for morning?
It's my way of saying good morning
Since I'm really bad at morning kisses
and bad at cooking morning pies.

How do you like poems for morning?
Because I'll be glad to make you more
And I'll make time to make you happy
And I'll make poems just for you.

I broke too much
of myself
thinking someone
could fix me.

I should have not
turned myself
to pieces
in the first place.

Because no one
would ever keep
a broken mirror
in their pockets.

I really like you
And it's still a mystery
if why I do.

But I guess,
It's about how you talk
With a full sense

Or is it how
you adore darkness
like your own safe haven.

Or is it how
Your sad dark eyes
Gaze my soul

Or is it how
Your poems feed
My inner being.

Or is it just how
My loneliness gives me reason
For you to be my prey.

I like you still
But wanting you
Would be a wrong choice.

I don't know how to write
Like those with deep words
Because I only write
What causes my wound

I don't know how to start
A poem that would last,
Since words couldn't go along
What my heart wishes to tell.

I never write poetry
But I write what I feel.
It cannot be greater than stars
But I write what I couldn't say.

I was never a poet
Nor a writer of my own
But I am  lover
Who only write to be loud.