i have learned to love in silence —
eyes no more than just a glance,
arms engulfing my frail stature,
fingers grazing your flesh,
lips knitted tightly
so not to speak of
how irrevocable i could love.

this quaint affection which i give to you
was returned by no more than
just hushed confabulations and regret.

and so i learn to love in silence —

for you are much more of an art from afar
that i do not dare wish to taint you
with my mere nothingness.

for i cannot speak of
how i would toss and turn
in the dead of the night,
wishing of what could have been;
how i am besotted with your existence painted in bright and vibrant tints.

loving in silence
had become a matter
that my heart is wont to do

and not an ounce of surprise
rushes to me when i hear nothing
but the soft zephyr.

yearning for something
i desire;

what lies beneath
the ivory duvet
when the rays of the sun
spares a shy glance
around the nook and cranny
of your room;

hands aching
to lace around yours;
waiting to taste sweet you,
bitterness slowly creeping
up to its own demise,
this is why the maidens
sung their hearts out
to accompany
the grieving tremors
that shook the faulty edges
we had built,
atop of guilt and uncertainties.

flustered sheets scattered
on the floor,
pieces of myself
i can no longer get back to
whilst a gaping hole
greeting my own eyes
held a fragment of truth and silence.

( this is not my home;
this is the apparition’s
treacherous threshold. )

yearning for something
i lost;

the warmth of your embrace,
contrasting with the
glare of the sun
pouring down on me,
easiness could never
give justice to you;

sly brushes of lips against my skin,
as if chanting
bohemian chants
all over me
to get out of this
witchcraft that we call love;

longingness in your eyes,
a renaissance painting
in front of you,
begging to feel
the constellations
in your hands
cascading through
every vein in me.

still, i feel something coil
deep inside me,
were you truly mine?

i am tired
of waking up
in the middle of the night
at the sound of
my skin tearing itself apart,
i can no longer remove
the stamp of
your lips and hands
off me;
my sides splitting open
so my scars ensconced
deep beneath the surface
can tell the story
of how i fell for you.

i am tired
of staying up
with nothing but
the company of the moon,
awaiting for its eclipse,
blinking away
fragments of what we had —
filled to the brim
with adoration —
although fleeting.

memories of
how you held me —
only distant.

again,
the clock chimed
unforgivingly,
reminding me
of late night drive throughs
around the crevices
of my wreckage of thoughts —
spilled and separated;
full of you,
only you.

a distinct feature
in my appearance
would be
the bags under my eyes;

i remember staying up
until my bones quiver
under the bewitching spells
of the moon’s forgotten raving sonatas,
enticing enough to cradle
an iota of dejected sentiments
from centuries and centuries ago.

i remember looking up
at the night sky
until my eyes flicker from dust to ashes,
burning the crevices of every wall i built,
graveyards broken down
to match the unmatched
bleakness of the ignominious sorrow
peeking out of the corner of your soles.

i remember laying down,
not once had silence became overbearing
that i could hear the faintest brush
of a weightless feather falling
from a tainted nest,
aching to meet its pernicious lover.

i remember closing my eyes,
shifting everything elsewhere;
still, i dread the feeling of compunction
emerging deep from
the landmines of mistakes
that i had claimed as my home
and my shelter.

but this, i could never forget:
i remember
being envious of you;
how you do not
lay awake at night,
wondering if things
could have been better.