"What do you wish for?"
Stunned, I remain silenced.
Tapping the pencil, tilting my head;
think. Fast. Now.

Nothing came to my mind but extinguishing
the very thought of you.
I decided to grant my own solitary wish.

And so, I wrote. I wrote you.
I wrote all verbal poetry exchanged.
I wrote all smirks and grins you've let escape.
I wrote the mere change in your voice tone
when you called my name.
I wrote, because writing was my only savior.
I wrote you, my darling,
into *****, crumbled sheets of yellow paper.

Rolling them up like those cigs enveloped by your lips,
I embedded each one to my heart's core,
one after the other, stroke after stroke,
and I started bleeding all over.

My final endurance, hallelujah, this was it!
I detached my heart from all that's connected to it,
I almost died.

I gathered up what has remained from my frail soul
and fed it into my coronaries,
just to keep it pumping yet.

Removing it gently, I dug up a hole in the dirt
and slowly placed it. Here it was,
you, lying in utter chaos.

I was devoid of it.
Devoid of what made me who I am.
I was motionless, dull-eyed, insipid.

I continued my life this way
the moment I decided to bury you alive.

Defined cheekbones,
your shy smile creeping its way onto your lips.
The desolation and the lone;
it will consume us and tie us up like flowers in your ribs.

You sigh and I imitate,
you cry and I soothe you into tranquility,
that place where you often be,
like that brisk truck ride to that shooting competition you had.

Two seperate worlds;
me and my expensive hobbies,
you and your country activities.
"You keep making me so happy,"
that line you kept repeating,
taking its time to linger in the back of my mind.

Falling for you was unprecedented,
I felt so powerless, bringing out
a character I never knew existed deep within me.
But then again you cannot be predicted,
a solitary Sagittarius,
how am I to say no?

For you were the guidance to my piece of my mind,
the hollow space between my ghostly fingers.
On spur of moment, it took you away then:
Distance.

Hereafter, flowers I once explicitly planted in your ribs
shall wilt leaving nothing but scattered debris,
as new flowers of your future beloved will replace mine,
and you'll forget the truck rides just like how you forgot about me.

If they do replace mine, and when they do,
I hope their soft stems curl up ever so sweetly around your ribs,
tugging at your bones to outline their intricacies,
blossoming wildly to tangle themselves next to your heart,
where I once used to belong.

They would coil and twist and wrap themselves around you,
engulfing you in an aura of saddening gloom,
leaving you with a malfunctioning mind
so you could feel my pain this time,
as you forget how to breathe.

What an almighty accusation!
A string of words muttered into the spur of the moment.

"You do not talk much, but..."
Do not attempt to free your way out of it, now.
A relentless accusation, that's what it really is.

Do you, Mr Know-It-All, have any idea how
I spent years upon years upon years
trying not to be so encompassed in myself, my own thoughts,
and feelings and constellations, my introversion, and open up?

Do you have any single clue how my plan was perfectly
detailed that I made sure not to go a step backwards?
You should've met me back then. You'd think I was mute.

Have you thought about what it really means to point out
the flaws in a person that they clearly acknowledge
all the intricacies of?

Did you really need to tell me what I already know?

Well, listen to this,
I will not apologize for me being uninterested
in small talk, the weather, and your mentality.

I don't particularly care how well you, neither I for that matter,
did on that hideous, arduous test we had.

I don't exactly fancy group talks where no one truly listens,
nor come up with a certain purpose.

You insanely shallow, shallow person,
I am not into your actions.
I am really not into your body, or eyes either.

Give me sensual meaning, not accusations.
I do not talk much, but when I do,
people listen, even you.

So hear me out now,
next time you tell someone they don't talk much,
make sure there are no stars in the sky
on which they'd be gazing dreamily upon.

Make sure they aren't engulfed in a book
so daunting it hurts.

Make sure they aren't trying with every fiber in their being
to speak up, because they know people like you are scrutinizing,
anticipating their every word to strike.

Make sure they aren't grieving.
Make sure they aren't broken to pieces.
Make sure they are free of all problems in the universe.

Make sure they found enough missing parts of themselves
to go on an adventure of exploring yet another soul.

But most importantly,
make sure they haven't gone downright mad
that they don't give a single **** what you have to say anymore,
********.

Make peace with yourself,
inspite of the everlasting riot in your head.
I have been placing one foot in front of the other,
creeping my way mindlessly through melancholy.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.

Have faith in what you do,
so that one day faith will repay you.
I have been contemplating doing all,
but the things I should be doing primarily.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.

Save time for your unique hobbies;
write all the poetry you need to be happy.
I have given up on the words, and the dialect,
and the books piled up on the shelves countlessly.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.

Draw yourself a tigh-fitting box,
then burst right out of it.
I have been confined to my comfort zone,
unkowingly losing a handful of opportunities.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.

Fall in love with yourself,
instead of spending time finding it with somebody else.
I have loved him too hard, yet ended it abruptly
just so I could set myself free.
And that's how it's supposed to be.