Little did I know that I've forgotten a lot how ardently melancholic the scorching afternoons were.

those afternoons, where it consisted of sweet reeks of cotton candy and lollipop, those afternoons that I don't have to beg just to rest, not to measure the time approximately and counting how proximate the distances are, like how I trace my digits on things to know if they're adjacent;

this afternoon, it's like I'm coming home to you.

I'm jealous of everything—
maybe because of how your life just goes by without any traces of me on it, I couldn't even get a chance to say how I love your hair falls perfectly on your face.

maybe, I'm just a moon, without your light, I'm nothing. You're everything like the sun.

There are two opposing things that define me: a poignant in eulogy, a melancholia in a deep blue sky and
a parallel and current;
it is boundless.

My love is an empty cage, grown in an innocent body, tearing flesh by flesh,
yearning mouth by mouth, a chest is a garden full of butterflies, my veins is a vial of momentary currents and curves molded to each caresses of something that lingers.

These parallels are a loose thread that bounds a brokenness, and on each pull of the gravity, I would ache to skin and bone.

                                        It is boundless.

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.