When voices
Turn into whispers
Echoing under our breaths
Lingering
Though the silence
Those three, sweet words
I’ve been dying to hear.

When the lights go off
The spotlight
Turns to you
Grab the mic
Between my thighs
Sing to me
The ballad
Of ruffled sheets
And warm bodies
The carpet is your stage
I am your audience.

When the curtains go down
So do you
Press me
Against the wall
Your nails
Digging through my skin
Hold on tight
As we shift gears
In this ride
You would never forget.

When the show comes to an end
The sound
From our beating hearts
Faster
And faster
Louder than an applause
But before you go
Sing to me
Once more
Let me taste
The song on your lips
The song I would play
On repeat.

Hello, it's you.
Standing with your long, dark dress
Twirling around slowly, as if flaunting
Urging me to come closer
The graceful circling movement
Slowly hypnotizing me
Am I awake?
Or,
More importantly,
How did I end up here?

You walk closer, each step echoing in the dark abyss below
Walking on a deteriorating wooden floor
With each step creaking
Ready to break
Ready to fall
Ready to take me with you
Stepping closer
Stepping
Closer
Clo--

I wake up, surrounded by four white corners.
The only sound I hear is my exasperated breathing
Along with the constant beeping beside me

Not today, friend. Not today.

Every story has a beginning, middle, and end.

Except if you are writing tragedies, where the beginning is already the end.

Or when the writer saves the hero, but that would not be called a tragedy anymore, would it?

Endings are as endless as beginnings, and they are just as good. Why does everything have to end in the first place?

Why can't we just begin, begin, begin, and keep on beginning?

Would we still reach an end?

What do you like about her?

For some reason, I could not decide what to say. When someone asks what I like about her, my mind goes racing so fast that I get caught up in my words.

She's the type of girl who would force the secret out of you if you refuse to tell it to her.

She's the type of girl who doesn't care about what other people think, she lives her life without anyone dictating it for her.

And her curves. God, if I could, I'd trace her curves all day.

She's the type of girl who gets jealous, even with the littlest of things. I thought at first it was normal to get jealous, but this is different. She'd get jealous not because you're breathing the same air as the other girl, but she'd get jealous because she's territorial-- she wants you all to herself.

She's the type of girl who never stops talking. If talking were a sport, she'd be an olympic medalist! But no matter how far off her topics would be, you'd never get tired of her, ever. You'd probably even drift away, lost in her eyes, and she'd have to snap her fingers in front of you to come back to your senses.

She's just mesmerizing, like you would probably touch her arm just to make sure that she's real. She's the full moon on a starry night; God, how could such an amazing person exist?

I'll admit, she's not perfect. Perfection is overrated. She has flaws, and that's why I fell in love with her in the first place. I fell in love with her flaws.

It's those little hands of hers, hands that have been cut and scarred from picking up the fragments of her broken past. You could only wonder how hands so small could hold my whole world.

It's the subtle silence between us, the silence after she breaks down in front of you, and you're not sure whether to say something or nothing at all. You'll end up hugging her instead, letting the silence speak for itself. The warmth of your embrace would remind her what home felt like.

It's the countless fights we have, when shouting would turn to screaming until no more words could be said, the silence wrapping around our necks and lifting us off the ground. It's in our heated arguments where we see, even for a moment, how much we actually care for each other.

It's the butterflies she gives me, a different feeling from seeing your favorite singer up close, or when you reach the peak of a mountain and see the spectacular view from up above. It's the butterflies that keep me from saying anything, staring awkwardly at her until she laughs. It's the butterflies that keep me on my toes every time I see her; it's like meeting her for the first time.

There she is, reading a book she had been hooked on. She zoned out of reality and immersed herself in her own private little space. I can't help but look.

"What?" She asks, every time she catches me staring at her.

"What? Nothing"

Little does she know that I'm not only staring because of her mesmerizing beauty, but because of her existence. Because she's too good to be true. Because she's so surreal. Because I can't believe that the girl of my dreams is right in front of me-- the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. And yet she wonders why I stare at her, gazing upon those eyes that hold the universe, and I'm just about to get lost in them.