The situation doesn't seem to be
pleasant,
for we are both caught in crossroads
of unexpected events,
and I'll be the first to say so.
I admit that I've always dreamed
of the stars being in favor with me,
that I've always gazed at you
as if you are one of them,
and every dusk, until now,
I still stare at the sky and wish.
I wish to feel your presence---
your warm and reassuring presence
---that keeps the life in me
holding on,
that keeps the fire in me
going on,
but as I am limited by the shackles
of my own insecurities,
I will have met you at crossroads
and say, "It's fine, don't worry,"
while the fire inside
becomes not of passion
but of pain that leaves scars,
and I feel myself burning,
turning into ashes
one by one by my own
destructive tendencies.
I am burning,
dying,
but I think ignorance is bliss,
and I think you don't have
to know anything
other than these feelings
of romantic fantasies.
You could know,
but I guess you don't
have to feel the same,
because we could be friends,
still.
We could be...friends,
I guess?
I think, in hindsight,
what is left is nothing else
but bursts of awkwardness
brought upon my own
loneliness
because I am lonely...right?
I guess,
in hindsight,
what I'm left with is nothing else
but a state of precariousness,
crumbling from the vagueness
not of us
but of me, for I am unable
to make sense of this
uneasiness I feel every time
I think of you as a star
among the bright, night skies
thinking that you are actually
a star among the burning sky
that's gone long ago.
I guess,
by confessing,
I lose everything,
and that makes me lonely, right?
I think I am
feeling more than just a heavy heart
from the silence that ripped me
apart
among the lines of poetry
I expressed every single day
that will never seem to be part
of your memory.
I think I am
fearing for the day that all those lines
and desperate attempts
to feel romance are nothing
but time wasted on groundless fantasies
not even denting a fragment
of your memory.
I fear the day
where both of us wouldn't recognize
who I am
---the day where both of us
will meet on crossroads
and an inquiry will proceed
asking, "who are you,"
and the only words that will be
crawling out and reaching out
for logic and realization
among the troubled mind
with nothing else coming out
but optimistic hallucinations
are the uncertain words of,
"I can't remember."
It's not that I don't want to apologize
to you,
but I can't seem to apologize
to me
because all I ever thought about
is you,
and I thought that's enough
for me.

What drives a person to love,
or so they call it?
What drives a person to madness
that clouds blur the line between
reality and fiction?
What drives a person to craziness
to the point that every hope
becomes desperation?
Is it the sincerity of feelings
harbored for years,
rehearsed and directed;
shared among peers,
or is it the vile desire
for personal satisfaction,
unanswered by simple
words of attraction?
What, in the name of love,
starts from point A to point B?

The answer?
Nothing
because what is perceive
by the majority
is that love starts from a point
towards a definite
line of singularity.
But love isn't a trip;
it's a journey
to the unknown realm
of one's humanity.
It soars through the skies,
and navigates the seas;
and changes every time,
every season, like a tree
that blooms, grows and dies,
but once it gains its ground,
love is yet another journey
towards the profound.
It is never about the person
to whom one expresses oneself
and it is never about the person
expressing oneself.
It's never about the person,
but the experience to it.
It's about growth and commitment
with the world in it.
It is the meals everyday,
not the food.
It is not a street;
it's a neighborhood.
It's not just the ground,
but it's also the air.
It's supposed to be found
here and everywhere.

Love,
goes from point A to point B,
then it moves to C, D, and also E,
and even after love goes to Z,
there will always be a point A,
where one can restart and see,
all the points one came across
which changed one's humanity.

Love,
never stops,
it's only the person that does,
for love is a force of nature
that shifts reality;
it never fails and it never will,
it's only the person
which fails to see,
the supposed change love can bring
to one's capacity
to realize the reality
bounded by the ways of love.

Love,
is never some thing;
it is something that isn't
material nor is it a feeling.

Love,
is an entirety of being
towards the world
one is living,
for love isn't just romantic,
platonic, nor storge-ic;
it is never just the term,
never just actions,
nor it is just feelings,
nor it is just efforts,
nor it is just confessions,
nor it is just gifts,
nor it is just commitments.

Love,
is everything at once
after everything starts to make sense.