I want you to walk with me to somewhere
better than this, where the sky
won't be black as pain or tortured and blue.
You are adopting my heart
as you take it beyond the furthest reaches
of joy, to that place where your beauty
comes from. A land of music and freedom lives
within you and now I can see it.
I need you to hold me with those peaceful arms
cradling my weakened bones as you drape
your soul over mine to thaw it,
heal it, let its bruises fade. Keep me safe
when the blood stops flowing
and the tears stop burning
and all that is left is your fingers
brushing the tears from my cheek,
your concerned eyes on mine,
your tan skin glowing umber in the candlelight.
When your eyebrows fall
under the weight of my burden,
your sealed lips will trail
your dizzy thoughts across my mind,
words of beauty unspoken, heard.

All of my poems are not about you.
Chill

Yogyakarta, 18 May 2017.
I lay in my be
my minds wandering around starbucks somewhere somehow.
I picture you come to my table, half run half walk "sorry, my flight was delayed for an hour."
You sat and took my right hand, look at my eyes deeply-even though i was looking at my cup of coffee​, sometime stared at you for couple times-then start to kiss my right hand like it was your precious thing.
It was, for you.
"It's alright" you stopped kissing my hand.
I know you were going to say how much you love me, wanting to say sorry for zillion times and...
Then i stop picturing us together.
It's my birthday, you know it.
Isn't it great when you say a simple 'happy birthday'?
It's simple, but beautiful and make me happy.
Make me want to continue my life.
Make me want to throw away my pain, my knife, my worst feelings.
It's my birthday, everybody knows it.
They wished me all the best and **** and **** and ****.
And you, i know you read my ****** poems.
please, im begging you, love,
Wish from you is all i need right now.

in the east
there is sand, and fire, and oath;
in the west
there is another plague
of the mind and the soul;
in the north
the solitude of every snowflake
can be felt;
in the south
the ancients are rotting
forgotten because
their stories don't sell