see - cah - moh - re
you used to say that
the wrong ones
dont matter to you, baby-
what if im wrong?
what if i'm not the right one
for you

see - cah - moh - re
you used to say that
the wrong ones
don't matter to you, darling-
but what if you are?
and you're not the right one
for me?

sturdy, sturdy
as the sycamore tree
is my love for you,
my darling thee

but as the roots, spreading
continuously till bedrock-

there is end to us,
there is end to love.

see - cah - moh - re
you say that
the right ones dont matter to you now
for they have no stories
to tell
no regrets to burn

and like the sycamore tree
that you've always pronounce wrong;
till there is growth in stagnation.

I know you're right for me.

Our steps crackled onto the tiles of sycamore
Thudding prints lashed beneath our shoes
Merrily advancing on such pavement
Along with you.

Side by side we barely stopped
Expunging air around with nature
Our bones twitched with each other’s ligaments
While our eyes took moments.
Pacing freely with the wind
Of autumn trees blessing us with leaves
Fallen it may be, but it will be felt
Like a wedding with petals on the carpet.

I barely notice the faces as they bounce
Or the blank mask they wear at the parties
For all I see is my sun
And I will bask with him eternally.

As we were approaching towards the way
Grip within a grip, steps are on square
All it takes to be happy
With you, I realized, it was simple.

I colored my hair for you.
platinum blond, like the ones
you always looked at the magazines
that you stole from the department store;
pretending to stroll casually,
walking slowly, avoiding stares
while we held the laughter
trying to burst within
our cheeks.

I colored my hair for you.
because of the inadequacy I feel
whenever I hold your hand
as we walk across the
judgement of bystanders, gazing
whispering, but you and I knew
that they don't matter as
long as I am holding you,
and you are holding me
I felt different yet
with you I am the same.

I colored my hair for you.
to express the liberty of your choice
to be with someone like me,
with black of hair, beneath your chin;
and being with you elevates
my being, and the contrast
of differences among differences.

I did it for you,
or so I thought.

you asked me why,
and I told you
I shed the darkness of my old persona
and the absence of pigments
on the crown of my head
is a blank slate; could be anything

for white is the color of a fresh start
or of deceit,
or of emptiness.

and I am but a mixture of those,
for I am weak but perceived as strong
for I am friendly but alone
for I am a freshly painted wall, with scars
of a graffiti screaming for a revolution

blond, I am.
a simple choice
with a taste
for a *******
freedom
of self - expression.

blond, I am.
a color I chose
to be.

I colored my hair for you.
And I remember, inside my head
I made you.

to ache is an art.

an art that the human soul is deprived of.

an art that everyone;
                    from toddlers
                             to corporate *******
                             must appreciate.

maybe it requires abrasions,
                                    gunshots
         ­                               or mockery from
                                some ****'s mouth

but the glory
of the slow-burn realization
                     that we're ******
is the wake-up call
                     that everyone must hear.

and we're stupid enough to understand
that aching
              is like drowning
                          in experience.

and drowning
        is preferable in deep wounds
            than in the shallow waters
                     of a rushed healing.


and it's saddening
cause
as the youth's yearning
           for the morphine that
                 'self-care' offers

the more we forget to ache.