This is a warfare;
                               we keep  it in photograph,
                               we keep it in pages,
                               we keep it a secret.

                              I thought I was a keeper

and then everything is heavenly
                                  You are beautiful at daytime,
                                  and shining bright at night.
                                  "You are ethereal"
                                                       ­          the distance is an animosity
                                                       ­          though, we keep on
                                                                ­ reaching  
                                                    ­             It is not about the
                                                             proximity
                                                                ­Yearning; we were still
                                                                ­looking at the same sky.

I thought I could keep you (as I keep everything about you)

you wouldn't  be able to held the sky as it was meant to be ethereal

I grew up as the bed grew bigger than me, underneath there were the roots of a dream that I used to forget; I lost in the card game and you still have a lot of tricks under your sleeve.

And I will yearn if I was still the one in your anticipation; you wear it like a Sunday best and wear it out when you don't feel like yourself.

And I'll follow the traces of your footsteps crawling as vines. What all my words worth if they are a noose entangling my limbs? honey, the roses scented faintly of blood, too.

And I will carry the weight of this spineless home.

Winter,
the decaying of life

Light;
sheer and lustrous

that's how your eyes glisten on the first fall  of snow

Cold is the night as it nestled on the nook of my neck; a familiarity
though, a sun-warmed skin mended the aching cold.

You were all what is left; a hope I keep when I wonder if there is a place for us among the ruins.

Hope;
an anticipation.

You:
the gift of winter.

"What thing did hurt you the most?" He asked.
"drowning" I answered.

He look at me as if he scrutinized each word to say.

"you can simply swim against the currents" he said.

I know he can do everything and there's one girl who couldn't even bear to touch the waters.

"You know how much grievance the ocean had bestowed whenever I attach someone in every story I know about it; she kept on drowning, anticipated on how deep the ocean is, every time his eyes fall in crescent"

Little things could turn the world
like knowing your favorite coffee and on how I could easily notice you on the way you laugh.
I know how strawberry ice cream tastes different as it looks better on your lips.

One time, we went on a secret room, I would love to be with you in that place because you are the first one I took there. Inside, there's a lot of mirror reflecting each side of your delicate and beautiful skin.

As I watched you glimmer, you are so amazed of how much I keep that place just for you.

And little did I know that you are looking from afar though, I only fix my eyes on you.

And there's an another cup of strawberry ice cream, one spoon for two.

But not with me.

She have been collecting butterflies, there are few in a frame in her house— the dead ones are displayed as a remnant of how beautiful they are and some of the living ones are in a glass jar.

she watch those fluttering wings, she is really fond of its translucency and prism-like butterflies.

There is a different one that makes her fall in love with. She keeps it with her, she wonders if there is any magic to this one special butterfly that she didn't want to end up in frame.

"I wanted to keep you but not in a selfish way" she muttered.

She opened the jar and watch the butterfly as it spread its wings gracefully.

She have never been into things such as growing a garden, they say her potential will have to be reached by a streak of light draping through the window pane.

she builds her greenhouse and collected some seeds, she doesn't sort if she'll grew by season or if it's a monstrous plant— she just want to see a lot of butterflies that she have never seen before.

she remain unimpressed, seeing a hues full of periwinkle and blues, roses and thorns decorated beautifully by her fragile hands, you can see on her plain tone the visible traces of paper cuts and ink blotch.

one day, a boy visited her garden, he grew fond and perpetrated on every flower she had. they sat on an empty, unfurnished room, filled with his paintings and brushes, not seem to notice the one uncleaned palette she used and left forgotten. She watched the boy as he paints, as if he knew every detail of his magic, it reminds her of the days she spent the same way, on how she loves it, tenderly in her heart— she said he was a stray butterfly, everything on him is luminous.

they spent their time there, little did the boy knew that she loves everything he had done on the garden. She wonders how a little misadventures were found in a wild wood.