destruction is
a form of creation

your restless body
carried all the burden
that perplexed souls left you,
shackled with disdain
all alone.

the reverberating sounds
of gaiety tugged around
the edges of your
curled lips
but you still wear
heartbreak and misery
as your identity.

your autobiography
consisted of polaroids
of people who
left you jaded.

yet you let the feeling of love
cascade down your throat
even if it left you
still gasping for breath.

you only said you loved me
when you were lonely;

you were scared of
feeling even a tinge of loneliness circulating inside your body
so you impulsively go out
during late nights
to search for love
in befuddled men.

you only said you hated me
when you were inebriated;

you were scared of
feeling even an ounce of happiness
surging through your veins
so you look at yourself
in front of the shattered mirror,
who pitied you
for ululating constantly.

your flagrant atrophy
shouts your
malapropos name
across the hearts
worn on every sleeve.

she looked at every
arch of colors
with so much fascination
that her seamless doe eyes
became one with the
unification of the splashed canvas;

she held his hands
with so much gentleness
like she was holding
a small piece of origami,
crafted by sturdy hands
but fragile hearts,
weeping ever so slightly
at the sight of the
sun coming back up
even after the nights it said
goodbye.

she was an explosion of colors,
all at once,
that was always
too good to be true.

sometimes
my body betrays me;

i try to form words of consolation
in my mouth

but it knits itself
into anger
i am blinded in;

i desire to dance just
beyond death's fingerprints

but i am shackled
with life's endless waltz.

i do not weep for
what had been lost

but for
what is to come.

maybe i drank too much
because i dreamt that
you held me in your arms
with so much love and adoration
like it meant something to you,

and then i became
sober

serendipity is not
the word to describe the
two of us;

we desperately tried
to fill the empty spaces of
our non-pareil hearts

like jigsaw pieces
adamant on forming an image
but not knowing that
they are not meant
for each other.

malevolence is
the word to describe the
two of us;

we hid the screams
under the ivory duvet,
complimenting the bruises
the two of
us had carved

like a stubborn mule,
we still keep on coming back
to each other.

i never got tired of how you wake up in the middle of the night,
carefully walking out of the room
and taking a clandestine peek
again back inside.

complimenting the moon and the stars were a constant thing for you
during the unholy hours;
they shine ever so brightly,
illuminating the tears you had shed
when you told me what your
biggest regret was.

you loved everything
that didn't love you back and
maybe that's why you get so attached
to anything that kept you
above the treacherous waters,
preparing itself to engulf you
in an endless
mirrors of conundrum.

i never got tired of how you sleep with the lights on
for you hated the portentous silence
that lingered and never
seemed to leave.

but you were a paragon of paradox,
contradicting everything you speak or
do. i do not have a firm grasp on
what you really
intend to say.

and perhaps,
that was the one thing i
got tired of.