so young,
you've already taken
the world
by a storm
grabbing their gazes
enticing their ears

so old,
you're still taking
our hearts
by a gentle breeze
sweeping us off
of our feet

you are the element
natural
and
unstoppable

He was a blanket, covering all of me. Fabricated by the most delicate hands, he kept me warm on cold nights. And one of my favorite parts of him is that one string attached to the right side of his neck; it was as if his life depends on it. Because that very string diverged into tiny threads which spread out to his hands and feet, and converged with four other strings that lead to his heart. They are rich in color, and I wonder how just those strands of life sustain him. But sometimes his strings would loop, link, twist and turn, and I would get so tired of being pulled along; every fiber in me started to turn into a knot of uncertainty.
...
He tugged on my heart strings that night though, as soon as I was about to cut the twine we had made with our fingers braided together. That's when I realized I can never really untangle myself from him and from the cross stitch of our crossed fates. Because for us to live, we need all strings attached.

to write and send a million letters to you,
then being returned back to me unread,
is like wishing on the stars in the sky,
which, in reality, are people who are dead.

wishing on falling leaves or feathers,
why must i use those things
if they themselves have fallen
from branches of life and free wings?

why would i believe in the luck of a penny,
when money can't buy your love?
the colorful palette will revert back to gray,
no matter how many rainbows are above.

there's one more thing i can wish upon;
they told me the moon's a way that's sure.
but how will my wish come true,
if it's you i'm wishing for?

1) We might have met with a hello, and I might have brushed it off by saying "later", but you were patient and waited for me. That's how I came to know of and learned to love you.
2) You keep telling me I was a carat in your diamond, that when I'm with you, you shine brighter and become stronger. Up to this day, you still make me feel so appreciated, needed and worthy, that I have learned to value what it means to live.
3) You adored me so much, that even with dried lips, you never failed to make my day with you smiling so wide at me, telling me over and over again that I'm the one you love, despite me telling you to stop because it was getting a little too cheesy.
4) And when you raised your hands up in the air, cheering me on, I  felt so much support, energy and positivity to get me through the hell days of life. "Long live us," you said. And I cling on to those special three words for the hope of future.
5) To win a race in life, you pushed me on, endlessly shouting "Ah yeah!" with every accomplishment and dream I fulfilled.
6) Being a risk-taker, you beckoned me to venture out with you to experience new things, moments, feelings and places. I never knew I could jam into myself so much in one day, but I did because you were there to help carry it all.
7) Even from our teens, into and past the twenties, I know we'll be here for each other. We've waited for each other for so long; finally we have a chance to be the mornings and nights we dreamed of.
8) When we grow up all the more, we'll understand each other more, and the both of us will change. But wouldn't it be true love already if our love for our changed selves still stay the same?
9) When you danced and took my hand in yours, I swear that was the time when you entered my heart with admiration bursting out of me, feeding my five senses alive.
10) And you were both a bliss and pain of mine. Whatever bad or good you've been through, I felt it all because we belong to each other.
11) Sometimes you fool around, but I love how you can be such a gentleman. Telling me to cover my knees, wear buttoned shirts all the way to my neck to prevent my collarbones from peeking out. But you don't know sometimes I like to see your collarbones, or neck veins. You're only human and I just stare in awe at your jawline, with my jaws dropping so in an unladylike fashion.
12) Who could forget February 14th? The first day you called me yours. I love how smart it was of you to do that; every Valentine's will be our anniversary. You were far away on that day, but you sent me flowers. Polaroids of you holding flowers, to be exact. I love how you were funny like that.
13) And chocolate. I love chocolate. You sang me songs about chocolate. Sweet, rich and just the right texture-- both your voice and chocolate.
14) The time you've spent staying up all night for me and my happiness; honestly was sometimes making me sad to see you weren't getting enough sleep or rest. You sacrificed so much for me, but all I can do is just love you more and more each day. Tell me, how can I make up for it? Appreciating every talent you have and every single thing and detail you created, was not enough. Even this writing is not enough.
15) There are countless times where you danced for me. Til now, you have never failed to sweep me off of my feet. Literally. But that's okay, if I fall. I know you'll be there to catch me.
16) And here is a new era. In the past, no matter how many times you complimented how good I look, I never really took you seriously or believed such words. Who knew a song about calling me pretty changed my viewpoint? At times, I don't get myself too for changing my thinking so quickly, but you still accept and love me anyways.
17) I may have been here since day one or not, I may have been here since the fourteenth or not, but rest assured, I promise you: I will be here until the end. And as cliche as it sounds, or as overused as it is, I'll always say the most raw and barest line of affection: I love you.

we both had two different painting styles. he was into calligraphy, the bold and gentle strokes of black ink on white paper; i was into watercolor, the translucent colors slowly spreading to a gradient on a Canson. we were two painters with brush styles of stark contrasts.

three objects. a flower arrangement, an antique vase and grecian sculpture. we were asked to pick the most eye-catching one out of the three, paint it in our of style of representation. and so we began.

him: what will you be painting?
me: i can't tell, you might judge me for it.
him: alright, but promise me you'll show it to me once you're done.
me: okay. same to you too, then.

hours passed, and while i often discreetly glimpsed at him, he caught my eye sometimes and would make funny faces or just softly smiled at me. i could not deny that my hands were shaking as i dunked my brushes into the watercolor jar and continued to finish my painting.

him: i'm finally done. this is a masterpiece.
me: i believe it's the same for me too.
him: should we count down as we turn our boards to each other?
me: nothing better than a surprise of what's the most beautiful thing out of all the objects before us.

we flipped our boards to each other's viewpoint, and we were both shocked to be looking at ourselves, a painting of ourselves, one done by the other. he painted me in black and white, a figure-ground influenced painting, strong in lines, simplicity in its finest state, rendering me bare and raw. i painted him in pale colors, a positive reflection of him lighting up life, and soft shadings to give depth to the meaning of his existence.

after knowing this and scrutinizing our works, his cheeks turned pink as the pink on my palette, while i covered my eyes with my hair as dark as his ink. we burst out laughing and blushing at the fact that the most beautiful object before our eyes was each other.

sometimes, i wonder if he's my muse, the art or the artist. and i felt like a watercolor jar at that exact moment, as if brushes soaked with different colors were being dipped into me all at once, the tint, hue and vibrancy bleeding into the clear liquid, getting murky. it was like those colors are my emotions, and with every emotion mixing, my thoughts get murky. i guess this is how it feels to be in love with all forms of art at once.

Next to his lips and his eyes, his hands are the most converstional. When he tells stories, his hands gesture persuasion and wisdom. When he shows his care to me, his hands hold mine firmly but gently. When he provides protection, his hands reach out to me and cradle me close. When he gives comfort, his hands stroke my hair and back, letting me know everything will be better with him beside me. And not once have i doubted anything he did with his hands.

//

I reached out for his hand that was placed lightly on my knee.
"What's wrong?" He asked. "Do you feel ticklish again?"
I shook my head and lazily looked up at his face, since we were sprawled on the couch, with my head rested on his shoulder, like his hand that was previously on my knee.
"Dont tell me you've got a hand fetish," he laughs in disbelief.
"I haven't said anything," I replied, drawing circles on his palm. Its amazing he isn't flustered, or at least he's acting not to be flustered, at my action.
He watched me quietly as I tried to read his palm. We sat there, only breathing, with him looking at me and me looking at his hand. This moment, is frozen and embedded into my memory. Just as those lines of his experiences are embedded into his palm.
"I would write a million books about just your hands," I confessed.
Through my dangling hair strands i could see him smile shyly, to which my vision cleared as he put the strands behind my ear.
"You don't have to write about me in books, when im already here always by your side. What's more is, whatever we had, have and will have, will be written on my palm, like its written in the stars."

From the moment he spoke those words and took my hands in his, I never believed in astrology, wishes, 11:11s, fortune telling, mind and palm reading anymore for the luck of love.

And you felt every moment of it. He arrived like the night, creeping up to you slowly, to take you into his arms, to embrace you, to tell you it's going to be calm and to tell you it's time to sleep. He shadowed over your figure in bed, he whispered in your ear, his breath like the night breeze touching your hair, his fingers like the moonlight lighting up your ****** features.

But you forgot some things about the night too. How his eyes darkened, how the night was supposed to make you feel scared and alone. How you felt him stand up from the bed, how he slipped right out of your hold, how you suddenly felt the lonely chill like it gets much colder as dawn draws nearer.

And the moment you opened your eyes to the light, you watched him go. He left like night, but your day wasn't bright. You squinted through the sunlight, to see him slowly fade away. It felt like you were on the poles of the earth, waiting for the moon to come around again, getting sick of the sun. It felt all so wrong, to be soaked in the sun but to feel the cold biting at your skin.

The night was all just a dream; the day is nothing but a reality. And to wake up to the exact second where the borderline of the night and day or dream and reality fades, this is how he left you.

It was a rainy night. He took out his umbrella, opened it, and it soon engulfed the both of us. "Hey, you're getting wet," he said. He pulled me closer to him, his arms like the umbrella protecting me, protecting us from the drizzle.

I snapped out of my daydream to find him weirdly staring at me, and asked him, "What, do I have something on my face?"

"No, it's just... why are you staring into space?"

Our footsteps made little splashes, puddles reflected a thousand images of us. These pictures from nature will not last for a lifetime but the rain was our witness, as if the skies were crying at a matrimonial ceremony.

I took a step away from him to let the memory of him soak in me. He stands there in the rain innocently, with umbrella in hand, waiting for me to respond. Breathing out, I told him: "Ask me what I think of you right now."

"Wait, what? Are we going to play a game?" That usual what-is-going-on look still stupidly plastered on his angelic face. "Well, what do you think of me right now, then?"

I didn't hesitate and the first word that automatically left my lips were 'umbrella'.

"Umbrella? Do I look that thin to you, really?" He said dryly as he gave me an uninspired look. He shook his head in disbelief and pouted. "And I thought you'd relate me at least to the rain."

"Umbrella: definition for a protecting force or influence," I told him as I stood in place. I side-glanced at him to find a spark lighted up in his eyes as his shoulders loosened. "You're my umbrella because I need you in rainy days and sunny ones. Literally because of your stature to block the sun or cover me when it rains," I laughed. "And it's not because you're thin like one, silly. But how you comfortingly stretch out your arms to me when it's a bad day for me. How you guard me from others' icy remarks. It feels like a need to have you around wherever I go."

He cleared his throat jokingly and added, "Might I say I also take you high like Mary Poppins' umbrella." He burst out laughing as I glared at him for his poorly done innuendo.

But right there and then as I rolled my eyes at him, he dropped the umbrella, grabbed me by my waist and kissed me as light as the raindrops kissing our skin. He broke off after a while and said, "Getting wet, are we?"

Before I could claw at him for his second pun, he released me as I chased him down, not caring if I would get a fever later. But sometimes I just wonder how did I come to like, fall in love, and love him-- basically feel every emotion with him. In all truth, he wasn't just my umbrella, but also my home whom I'll always return to at the end of all my days. Umbrella or home, he is my shelter.

i'll summarize the painting
of my life with him in it.
it's a priceless work of art,
only love is the profit.

i raged crimson,
for the time you had to leave.
out of my stubborn anger,
the truth, i couldn't perceive.

i splashed shades of blue,
for the time i spent alone.
to feel so sad from everything,
melancholy was monochrome.

i planted green,
for the growing bitterness
of hating and loving you,
simultaneously like this.

i shined yellow
for the murderous thought
of the both of us,
turning brown, it rot.

i built up gray
for the concrete walls
of my cold, bare heart
every time you called.

then to black it faded,
everything was gone.
but white invaded
because light has come.

the pinks and purples,
suddenly arrived.
you finally came
yet somehow i have survived.

but for you to leave,
or if it's me to go,
let's stop each other.
for an unfinished painting
we wouldn't want to know.

Her writings overflowed with emotion,
But she herself was an empty shell.
She took it as a precaution,
That true love is never felt.

She killed everyone with her words,
But she herself is immortal.
And so this she hated herself for it,
Even if she earns the poet label.

Then she suddenly met him,
To which her poems were given life.
But to still feel helpless and cold,
She just wanted to die.

But he never let her go,
Her leaving as much as she tried to,
He sought to bring back life into her arms,
To bring me back to you.