The openness that the curtains were giving me
is terrifyingly peaceful —
the bundle of joy I felt when a little boy creeps in
and peeked through while his eyes roam around
and I gazed upon his hopeless dilated pupil.

Around the bushes outside, there are roses
blooming in the night — while his shirt has been struck like lightning laid his hands on him
and there were bloods sticking out his nose;
Ceased brows were heavily in my forehead
then I saw him enter my room with a knife
glued into his hands.

The eerie tic of my shivering body
must have given him the freedom to do the stabbing and I let him do that — closing my eyes
while I wait for him to shout and beg,
I kneeled down in front of him and let my tears get a hold of me.

"I must have left you on the cold, I apologize."
I said and he stabbed me right in the heart.
The little boy smirked while I lost consciousness and everything seems slow in motion — the colors began to fade and my mom suddenly swayed through the door.

The curtains are swaying back and forth and I woke up with a bliss.
There's a little boy outside.

How long will these enigma of misfortune can be carried out by
my hands—laid and lewd
shining with mud and uncertainty.

How long will the stones be put into pressure
to become the diamonds in the city—where known is familiar
and the unknown is discreet and mystical.

My head throbs with excruciating pain—it can be called as emptiness, a glass without water,
whom the sound shrieks like death is coming.

Into broken pieces of the diamond city—I have felt the pressure, the innate madness of forsaking the world and the world knowing my limits and the little shadow that keeps me company beneath my bed.

How long, oh, how long will these enigma of misfortune be laid out in my grumpy hands—in between secrets and opportunities.

How long, to be an artist?

If I tell you, my muse,
how I long for your presence
amid the desert in the crack of dawn —
would you saunter by and stay
until these wounds be in silence
and covered by your unpredictable peace,
will you stay?

My muse, when I write you, no name
no shade, no face — a beauty with only
a mere part of your body in a physical dimension
of my story, with you here, I feel
the sense of belonging
the unknown familiarity,
take a plunge, face the mirror —
I am there, I am there.

You were born in May,
in full moon by the seaside.
You were crying melodies
and the current flow of the waves,
carried you to me, in reality, in dream,
in song, while your face
soft and maiden for what I saw in your eyes.

The past, the future,
how you brought comfort —
while my book stays there, in draft,
in awe of you, my muse.

This is how I celebrate the month of May,
where are you muse?
come and take a look in your creator —
I am here, I am here.

Intensely, I traced his steps until he met
my eyes, the only gaze I welcome
with a reflection
of light, grey and hue of
excruciating colors—to serve
his mightiness in the forlorn night—
through the fields and the city,
everyone is following him.

Their mouth agape in the sight of
his face peering at his brides—in weeping, in despair, in all forms of wrath—hope and madness.

The moon creeps in the black of the night—with his voice lulling as a whisper, faint like a finger softly lingering its hands on the piano—
through the perilous scheme of the midnight dawn.

He then wept with his brides and kneeled down in front of me.
His linen gown and fur coat covering his silver body and his eyes shriek with only a weeping melody.

He faced me and my heart sank at the sight of him,
“My bride, how come you are facing such a horrible nightmare?”

He said and held my hand,

“Artemia, I am broken by the man whom I love so dearly. I faced death, inferiority, dreamless sleep, and my heart crawled out of my body,”

“Darling, you are a bride of the moon and a man will only love you if they get blinded by the light, and such us, we are the daughters of the night. A man who is in love with the moon, is out there waiting for you.”

He then walked away, faced another midnight with his bride gleaming with hope in the forlorn night, with the light, grey and hue of excruciating colors.

There, I saw how he turns into the god of the night.

Slow, steady, and unhurried steps of her feet that almost floats in the air — while her body lies
on the couch of her old apartment. Her apparition was lost on the airy night of December.

Her feet turned cold and weary, her breath smells like fury and her heart grew solid and unsteady. It beats just the sound of the drum rolling, her pulse radiates of fear, and her lips shut and dry. She turned around and her body keeps still and sounds asleep. As if, it was a normal night and just and peaceful.

She flew right through the door and stroll around the street of Evergreen. It was silent and streetlights turned off. It was smokey and dark. The pavement seems boring and bleak—her dress swayed and the cold air seemed welcoming to her chest. She passed by several houses and happened to find a bookshop. It was vintage and awkward. Its structures did not seem appealing nor look like someone owns them. But she manages to get past through it and books welcomed her—like how ghosts welcome their favorite strangers.

She passed by some old and modern books, carefully slipping her tender fingers to its hardcovers, flipping through endless pages, and breathing the dusty nostalgic aroma of the '90s. “It never gets old,” she says. She flips and flips, flies through the stairs, and find more pages. Circles all the important words, digesting all the heartfelt quotes—this has been her dream.

Suddenly, the lights filled the room, her eyes closed and her heart is racing through her pulse. An unknown hand grabbed her and pushed her to the wall. “Who are you, young lady?” Said the man with a gritted teeth.

Slowly, the woman opened her eyes, and there in front of her revealed a young man with hazel eyes and the smell of strong coffee in his mouth. His aromatic smell of vintage soul and modern scheming look. She dared not to speak but the man in front of her just pinched her pulse hard and peered at her.

She dared to look at him, and they both just stared at one another.

“I- I just want to read books,” she pouted. And the man avoided her face.

“But this place does not exist anymore.” He cleared his throat and loosened his grip on her.

“I- I'm just traveling by,” she added.

“I know. I am too.” He said, avoiding her gaze.

“You're an apparition too?” The woman asked. And she waited for a proper response but he just gazes upon the empty shelf around her.

“To go back,” He whispered.

“Are you the owner?” She asked once again, hoping she will get an answer from a stranger.

“Go home or I might do something you will not like.” He turned to her and gawked.

The woman sighed and went home with questions and strange memories she did not know she has.

It was the second night of December and she floats in the air. Passed by several houses and went to the old bookshop. She continued reading books and the man found her again. But this time, he was silent and cleaning around the area. The woman smiled and tried to talk to him.

“What is your name, young man?” She asked. The man froze and stood there, stiff. She laughed and did not expect an answer. Rather, she went upstairs and kept reading.

“John,” He held out his hand this time, formally acknowledging her presence.

“Emilia,” She smiled. Both of them spent the night reading books and talking about modern literature...And philosophy.

On the third day of December, she did not wake up through her apparition. Instead, she woke up with a soul, feet's touching the ground, and a face that is mirroring her reflection through the mirror. She exhilaratingly went out to find the bookshop, passed by several houses but did not found where the place was. She went back to her old apartment and tried to locate the bookshop.

However, it was only an empty lot she found when she tries to find it by heart and soul. The disappointment was evident on her face and her heart beats rapidly—ceased brows and lips shut tightly.

“John?” She whispered.

“John?” She calls him out again, hoping he'd hear her.

She steps into the burnt-out place. It was only an empty lot with wild grasses scattered and a tombstone lying there, in dust. It was named after Emilia Blythe. Suddenly, a familiar arm hugged her from behind. It was John, and her tears swelled around her eyes—while her heart ache and memories flooded her mind.

“I couldn't save you back then, Emilia, so I went back from the past and live in my dream to see you.” He whispered with comfort and longing.

“It's not your fault, John. I am sorry I forgot about you.” She cupped his face and peck him on the forehead.

“We can work this out and live forever in my dream.” He said with pleading in his eyes.

“But I am only a fragment of your imagination, John. You can let me go. It's not your fault,” Emilia said with conviction.

“I am just a vintage soul, a wayfarer amid the longing dawn and I am a fragment of your imagination. This place exists but it's all in the past now, you can let me go,” She added and let go of his hands.

“Wake up, dear.” She bid him her last goodbye.

John woke up with his heart racing and hopeful eyes. The people around him gathered and created strange noises in which he got confused, he opened his eyes and saw familiar faces around him.

“Thank God you're awake!” An elderly woman hugged him and kissed his face.

“It's a miracle you woke up after five years, son.” He remember his Father's voice and held his hand.

“Where's Emilia?” He asked, hoping he'd get an answer.

“She's gone... Remember?” Her mother broke the silence.

“Like 10 years ago, son.” She added.

He went back to the old bookshop, where Emilia was there. He traces all the books she touched and flipped through the pages where she left.

It was old and aromatic. It was vintage yet modern. The good thing was, his parents renovated the bookshop while he was sleeping for 5 years. He went upstairs and found the section where Emilia was always staying. He scanned all the books and touched every single page of them.

He flips through the pages and found a quote there, it was written with a bleak ink,

“We will meet again,


your old vintage soul”

He smiled and ripped the page out, then the door clicked and the bell rang. He immediately went downstairs and greets the woman in front of him.

“Can I borrow books from section 5-” The woman was cut off when John hugged her. Her face was confused and red.

“Emilia?” He whispered.

“Uh, I'm Emily,” She awkwardly answered.

John laughed and gave her an apologizing look.
“You look like someone I know,” He said.

“Sorry,” He added.

“No worries,” Emily answered with a half-smile.

And they both smiled at each other.

My mouth widened its passage to yawn out the drowsiness,
in my dizzy mind and endless tickling of my eyes closing—
while I still fight for my consciousness to live,
while she was out there playing fire with the rain.

Where the time goes back and she meets me from the tree of souls,
from her tears there comes a glimpse of tomorrow, and from her black silky hair,
there comes a defying gravity
of sleep and reality.

I once entered a door of hope—where the dead sleeps and live
from heavenly green pastures,
trees alive and birds whistling
a great melody of harps
and angels' tune,
there I saw her—and the time stops,
the bell rang, the place filled with the tricky lights,
from the tree of souls,
there is one key that holds the glimpses of yesterday and tomorrow.

I yawned out the momentum of my blissful sleep
waking up from a deep heavy dream,
the clock ticked, the trees danced, the winds hustled, and
I danced on the curtains of life.
I kept a straight face and distanced myself
from the harmony it brings,
my body sways and my voice sang
a melody with an unfamiliar tune,
my heart swelled and I saw her.

She slowly stride her feet and welcomed me her arms, while I let out the tears
and cry crystal diamonds, wiped it with her swollen hands—
she let out a laugh I am longing to hear,
“It will be over, I promise.”

The intense surge of the cold waves seeped in through my bones. It lingers and its bitterness was too rigid in my tongue. Breathing in the water was shallow, closing my eyes so I can swallow the saltiness it gives—the oxygen to breathe.

No thoughts, only an empty head with choking memories of an angel saving a lost sheep—in the vast ocean where the blue seems acquainted and welcoming to strangers. The moment I was out of the water, I still cannot breathe.

Did the ocean hear my longing? The angel's face was like a bottle of old wine, tastes bitter in one's mouth. His wings were heavy, flying through the midnight sky—his face soften as he gazes upon my merciless eyes. I turned away not wanting to lock eyes with him—for the sky forbidden me to taste him.

He was an old wine, living through the dusty shelf to be displayed—when it is his time, his light shines and his wings were like bitter snow, swaying across the lonely sky—his lips a pink-colored cloud and his skin as white as the velvety mists surrounding us.

He then turned to me and said, "I will be your water to breathe from," and gave me the most genuine kiss to breathe from the dryness of my mouth. And tears scattered along the lines of my ceased brows, the satisfaction, the mystery of this longing—the space from where I can breathe again.

The drunken eyes that were staring straight into my core regained his broken wings and I fell right through the deep waters. I closed my eyes, for soon he will fly through the whole universe, and I will be the stranger who saved him.

I breathed in the water, giving me a sense of satisfaction, an old friend of memories swayed along the waves and the coldness it gives, a bittersweet vice and a comforting thunder from which it is like a song. I fell and fell 'til I was in the middle of just drowning; somehow it feels warm and good.

His face flashed right in front of my eyes. His goodness, how he tastes, how I long for him—how mysterious his eyes were. How he is an old friend of grace and death disguised as an angel.

How I can breathe in the water and through his lips. Somehow, I am not a stranger to this place.