"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
Every syllable was the pitter patter of water on glass panes.

But the feeling he gave me was hurricanes on concrete.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
The fluidity of the liquid would fill the crevices in my mind to the very tip and remind me that I was not alone.

You do not have to read the meniscus to look deeper into my being.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
He formed his words and dragged them quietly across pavements, reminiscent of the deep tint of the clouds and the rumbling of thunder.

But when the sun came out,
I did not feel radiant
I felt alone.

It’s that awkward time between 5 and 6 pm where his eyes are the colour of mocha brown stained novel pages and finger tips callused and crinkled with years of practicing and gripping too tight on a black biro pen.

He turns the corner of the street and we make a narrow escape to the highway where careful mothers have their children strapped to seats wailing with voices so shrill yet so untouched and pure..

And I turn and I look out the window and plaster on a sad look like I’ve been copy pasted out of a sad music video about boys and breakups and lost loves, reminiscent of the paraphernalia of stories and soaps and television shows my mother used to watch.

Slowly I turn and I feel a tap on my shoulder blades and he asks me if I’m ok but secretly I’m wishing and hoping that there’s more to life than this god forsaken city but I still say I’m fine anyway.

"The city looks really nice this time of day" he says and I just don’t see it because everything around me is illuminated in fake fluorescence and wired in with the hands of a man who’s just lost his wife and swears his depression is just a phase.

"Squint and you’ll see it" he insists but I can’t because the world is in monochrome and the concrete of the buildings are the tombstones of chivalry and manners, filled to the brim with office workers hunched over stacks of papers and lists.

He turns left at the third intersection and laughs at a man squabbling drunk cursing the world on the side of the road and I hope he doesn't know that it was what I'd do if he let me grab the bottle of Jack from the trunk.

"Goodnight and godspeed," he laughs and I say "*******" in exchange for a hug and so another day passes in the presence of car windows and rolling cityscapes.

My physics teacher told me that the acceleration due to gravity is 9.81 m/s/s

yet this law does not apply to things

that are either too large or too small.



I feel like my presence 
defies all laws of physics,

as i feel larger than necessary,

out of place,

struggling to fit into the confined hallways of my school,

doomed to be forever compared to the pixies that float

down crowded hallways,

slipping past each other 
with agility I can only dream of having.



However, at the same time

i feel tiny and insignificant,

as my voice does not project

in a sea of too much static,

and my physical presence does not equate

to my lack of a voice

and lack of a self-dignity.



The biggest flaw in science is that it is a data based art form—
scratch that, it is not an art form,

it is a carefully executed set of rules,

in which statistics are king
and the stripping down of all things human,

is only what becomes of this “objective observation”.


It is ironic that in which when we began the processes of science,

and delved into the depths of our curiosity

we forgot the real meaning of humanity
and every

kingdom phylum class order family genus species

is only a testament 
as to how far we’ve gone

into taking so many parts of a whole
and breaking them into infinitesimally smaller pieces. 



Ironically, with advancements in chemistry

we realize how large we are in comparison

with the atoms and quarks that merely make up

imaginary fractions of our beings.

And since atoms are mostly just empty space, 

one can argue that the things that make up who we are,
arguably do not 
take up any space 
at all.



But in retrospect, the advancements of astronomy 
help us realize
that 
we are a lot smaller than we think we are,

as in a cosmic scale that even God has trouble wrapping his hands around,
the Earth becomes a quark

that makes up the state of our being.



On a cosmic and molecular scale of things we belong

in such an age in which
we are torn between extreme larges and extreme smalls,
and finding the middle is too unsatisfactory,

as humans tend to have a tendency
to claw for too many sides. 

I am both a girl and a student of science

and a student of whatever the cosmos

has granted among us unfortunate humans

to latch our desires upon,
yet I do not understand,

why 4 dimensional concepts 
have to be watered down

into 2 dimensional figures.

In this version of reality, I begged for you to stay,
and I did not seal my mouth with the adhesive of a lie.
I set free the muffled confession I had caged in for 6 months
which prompted you to turn back
for a second
only.

In this version of reality, I didn't even blink,
boldly proclaiming that you were nothing to me,
only a fraction of a sliver of a passing thought
that dawned upon me on rare occasions.

In this version of reality, you were the one throwing punches,
and I was the one subject to submission
for the fear of hurting you back
was greater than my desire to protect myself

In this version of reality, you watched me walk away,
while every atom in your body willed you to grab
to reach for
to touch,
but your conscience betrays.

However, this is no made-up version of reality.
You just are
I just am
and we are just not

This is the way it is.

I don't want my words to be prisoners.
I demand for them to be unchained from the confines of these pages,
to take the first shaky steps towards peeling themselves from pulp and ink
and into the third dimension.

I want my feelings to follow and tread down
the well-beaten path I have walked on my entire life,
and eventually plant themselves in other people's minds,
phantoms dwelling dormant in their existences.

I crave to hear the sounds of my deepest desires
bounce off the echoing walls of deep mountain valleys,
snaking through streams and disappearing
into the gaps between grains of sand.

But it was one thing to let everyone hear me whisper.

All I really wanted was only for you to hear.