So real,
so real.
as I starve to death
to bathe in bliss
burrow to a skin,
a cataclysm.
unraveling a deep blue, calamitous love
holding on to an anchor (and only him could do that)
open it like a gift;
a suture unfurling my pain,
so real and so does he.

I grew up longing to be found
on a deserted place where the stories
told 'I shouldn't have meant to be there', counting the dead until I become them. I was written on old houses as I was left haunted and reminisced on melancholic belonging.

However, it is her rising, the beginning, the becoming.

I am a chest filled with lullabies, it is my reaching to the world to heal my heart, and a calling of the ocean, where my love belongs.

How does it feel like to float in a complete void, alone with an uncertainty of surviving and going back to where you used to live? I was talking about the Sputnik II, the famous satellite launched with the dog Laika aboard. The very scene also portrays the life here on land. Each day, I'm caving in my own realities, an impressive way of escaping. It has buried me in that idea of you existing on it. It is a badge to be given, a sigh each time you twist the **** on the door.

And there I am, a banquet of a montage of a violent delight, a beauty of the sea cascading the shore, it's in my veins, a rushing current of this mere event. I watched people applaud, how the glass clinks, and you, an array of sun, so immaculate, I can't look away.

I cannot bear losing it.

and we'll be a specks withering, it is a bittersweet love:

I would endlessly live on it.

We were once told that we are the missing part of someone else with an empty heart and a lost soul, taking the absurd, roaming around the world as barely whole.

And as I look at two points, a double vision
meeting the one'******, unwaveringly— a north star, perfectly aligned upon the night sky. An anchor to a heart, it is engraved deep in waves, tumultuously enfolding each flesh— a longing as to be found in the wilderness, a pillar as to be run into, safely.

And though my love clung to a myth,
bounded to a constellation embodied us
and traced in our palms, they will remain a story from the past.

I'd wish to know, if we're only an idea of tall tales that meet the skeletons in both our closets and thus, it solely goes romanticizing my tarnished land.

In fury, my escapism brought me home away from home and there he was, he's the familiarity I'd wish, I never know.

So dear, he's already 'a home',
I'd live and die at times he's all I have and so this borrowed chance, as to what I afeared of, my love is building; a labyrinth, I'd never wish to escape.

Some days I am swimming,
most days I am sinking.
There is never a day where I
can simply just float.

There I was, staring from afar,
is it just the night scene that makes my periphery hazy? Or we're on a geomorphological process of meeting an another celestial body; you were standing there, wondrously daydream- like, as that time came unbeknownst to me.

There is a strange familiarity on you
that changes my animosities— a paradigm shift, and all the long way leads to you.