You hit me like a wave. I drifted away, coming into the shore, and lied there with nothing but my naked eyes; the sun covered my cold, barren body. Radiating sunshine and weakness as the sea called over me, you traipsed and towered over my sight, blinding me with your ivory skin lit as the match fired the sky.
 
The waves in the sea squished me in like a soft linen blanket, wrapping me all over like the comfort of a mother. My hands were trembling as you stood there unmoving, and the melodies and blasphemous beats almost dug me out of my ears; I couldn’t even do anything. You were there like an angel lost in his epiphany. It was as if a goddess were in front of you; your eyes spoke as you became a slave to your own wrath, worshipping what was in front of you. You laid your eyes on me like I was some kind of song you could not decipher.
 
You stood there, solving the creeps and mysteries and finishing the last verse of a poem you will never read again. You hit me like a wave, and I drifted away, hoarding memories left astray. You were there, godlike and lost, and even the sun loathed your fire. You burn like a match, your skin a stain of crimson—of sunshine and weakness. You called me, but I did not answer.
 
It was cold, and I loathed it. Perhaps it was the month of October where the enigmas of night lay open, and achingly, my flesh was found in humiliation. I continued to bleed, on and on.

Soft saccharine kisses and the way you held my hand—the gleam of the sun were clenched by the wistful glamour of your lips; and I stare at you, my dawn in the midnight sky.
 
Your countless palaver I can hear, forever lost in the starry eyes of yours—a nest of novice thoughts—I smile at you, my rather gauche. You were a dreamy night, and I was an afternoon tea—flat-out boring and tasteless. But I am also a poet, and you were my muse.
 
I was a copper, and you were jet black with charming brown eyes—and so I thought, “He’s so pretty, I could cry. He’s so dreamy, I could call him mine.”
 
If only I could give you these angelic kisses and let you feel these unearthly lips, lulling you with reverie and the dizzying glow of mid-December. The moon looks over us, and all he can sense is my longing, longing, longing.

Do you know I’d circle around the globe, just to be greeted by those lovely eyes of yours?
I'd cross even the sharpest nails I will step on just to hear and carry your gentle voice.

Vacillate between the warmth and the cold.
The sea and the clouds—even the steep avenue or the slippery cobblestone—just to get near you.

For I will carry all your deepest sins and cleanse them with these calloused hands—far enough to call it love.
My heart will leap from me the moment our eyes meet again for the ninth time.

And surely, the vastness of the sea cannot amount to all the words I can make up for you.
Even the most tedious piece will be turned into a faithful painting—so long in memories.

It will remain just that.
A silent, cacophonous whisper—inside of it was all the love I have stored for you.
It will remain just that.

When the time finally freezes the moment you walk in, my eyes will still be locked into you.
And I’d cross once again the sharpest nails I could step on.

I’ve been told by a friend to wait here.
As long as I stay here, you’ll be back past five o'clock.
I’ve waited—you came and opened the door.
It’s true; now I will dedicate my nine lives to you.
 
"She drinks her tea by midnight and lulls herself to sleep. You should waggle your tail and lie beside her. Every day except for Saturday." My friend laughed rigorously when she finished that statement.
 
“Why can’t I play with her every Saturday?” I asked her, trying to grasp her evading eyes.
 
"Just because," she shrugged and tried to climb the tree.
 
"Wait!" I hissed, but she’s nowhere to be found now.
 
I did everything she told me to do. Eat my food past lunch, play with my worn-out toy, and wait for her to be home.
 
At the exact moment the cruel sun rose and the light hit my body, I waggled my tail and lied beside her. Unfortunately, I forgot it was Saturday today.
 
I called her name, distinctively meowing in a weird manner. I cackled slightly; she wouldn’t understand. Biting slowly with her calloused hands and licking the side of her face, she still won’t wake up.
 
And I meowed until there was no sound left of me. My dear Celia, wake up, for you have to give me food now.
 
You still need to bathe me and play with me at the park. We’ll still wait for the night to come and watch TV.
 
Oh, Celia, I’d still spend my nine lives with you. Where have you been since I slept last night?
 
I’d still wait for you here at the table, near the window. Where the trees dance the delicacy of their sickening leaves. Oh, how we both hated the crispness of those brown leaves.
 
Oh, how you knew how much I hate autumn and how much I undoubtedly love the breeze of winter. The screeching of the winds and the snow falling onto the ground, where we both scrutinize its unique aspect. We were the same.
 
How you were covered in snowdrops, and you’d throw me inside the snowpack. I’ll hiss, and you’ll laugh.
 
"I told you not to play with her every Saturday," my friend whispered, almost with a faint cry. There was a hint of longing in her voice.
 
"You haven’t told me the answer, Ong."
 
"She grieves in her dreams, my friend. He visits every Saturday, spends a day with her, and goes home at exactly midnight. She’ll wake up tomorrow, bud," she answered in agony.
 
Who's he? " I turned to her, but she vanished once again.
 
Celia, I will love you for the rest of my nine lives. I’ll wait for you tomorrow. It’s okay to grieve for now.
 
I’d still wait for you here at the table, even though it’s autumn. We both got to accept that winter is already over.
 
It’s my first life with you in autumn.

A little crumpled.
Fold it in half.
A bit dry from the crevasses of its body,
still, it’s a blank slate.

There’s a table placed beside it.
A warm chocolate milk on the right side of the table, the rain poured, and winds blew.
A pale hand reaching for it.
Skin like ivory, laced with thick, intensifying wires all over her body.
It connects, and there’s a pulse.

A pull.
Observed from his perspective, there’s a gravity,
it is a button, or power itself.

Drained.
Whether from the weather or words born with swords.

Birth.
It’s a little crumpled,
folded into eight shapes.
He bled as a form of escape
and she drank her warm chocolate milk.
Alongside it, there was filth.

A jarring, disturbing day for a summer breeze in mid-July. The streets were covered by the footsteps of people hustling, hoping they’d be early for their 8–5 job, and babies crying when their mom left for a meeting that started at 11 a.m. And I bought my favorite coffee—a caramel latte.
 
It was as if my worn-out hands, which have been clawed out by the hand of the disrespectful ghost who’s been living inside my apartment, coveted the sun and thought it was time for him to be kissed by the summer and embraced by the coldness of the winter—it’s coming and it’s starting to cry a little.
 
Drop by drop, until my jacket seeped the harsh trickle of the rain. Terribly enough, I was standing near the pedestrian lane, and the universe ribboned the strings between me and this disrespectful ghost. Mind you, he was a stranger once. And we both looked at each other.
 
He was waiting for the bus, and I am too. He’s on the second seat, and I’m on the left, near the window. Third row. He loves music and likes to listen to it when he’s bathing. He loves writing just like I do, and he loves to hum his favorite songs just like I do.
 
He loves basketball, but he rarely plays, and he loves to daydream and has two imaginary friends. He loves to hold my hand and kiss me on the cheek. But then he died. And he smells like the earth—with thick thorns covering half of his body, bleeding through his shirt, and losing his smile.
 
But then again, the earth sent him back, and I started to mourn. I no longer know his name, but I mourn for him. It’s time for this ghost to go, and it happened that we’re both on the same bus, and he was disrespectful enough to not inform me that he’s leaving again.
 
Perhaps I’ve come to terms with the fact that tenants like him will come and go, and their loose threads will always be tied to me. I’ve yet to let go. He’s dead, and he’s now a stranger who once walked down the street.
 
My caramel latte is now lukewarm, and I threw it away, but I was early for work. What a jarring, disturbing day.

The entirety of my being is trapped in the cosmos of all things — of you.
The morning dew greeted me today with the ache of yesterday, or perhaps the certainty of what was once mine
 
There was a receipt in my hands, where grief was found and the silence felt like love letters delivered on the front of my door, and I was told, ”It’s June; no one is kind”
 
A week from now, it will be June. Followed by the same day, but it will be July, and then next, August.
 
Absence of green.
The sun bleached my skin.
Amber sky.
Tears of joy.
 
There was a time when I thought being trapped in the cosmos of all things was part of being loved, loving, giving chances, and breathing.
 
But it’s exhausting; nobody has yet to answer this call — or perhaps the center of this letter is written for you. Mostly because I have yet to find the reason why you can’t put out the fire in me.
 
So I could grow cold and wither and paint my soul an endless winter — but it’s so cold, and I have got to deal with that.
 
And there you are, away from the shore. It’s night again, but it’s still June, and my heart is still in silence.