To sum it all up,
I don't think anyone
has been able to
understand me as well as you did -
understand me enough to know
I needed help understanding myself.
So when you left,
you left me in this trance
where I didn't know whether
to walk back or run forward.
Instead, I lit myself on fire
thinking it would be easier
to learn from scratch
than to fix broken glass.
But either way,
I came up confused with ****** hands.

gd

Scraps of paper lay around me
filled from top to bottom in black and blue ink
tracing obscure lines that manage to create syllables
and sounds and thoughts from a year ago.

And how obscure those times look now,
written from a naive mind and a hopeful heart.
They're written all over, upside down and under
just of your name turned into metaphors and adjectives.

And it's funny because the first word
I used to ever describe you was "sweetheart."
Little did I know you were nothing but
just a sour replica of a beating *****.

And it's still funny because you pulled on every single one of
my sweet-heart strings until they mimicked the choppy melody
of my breath whenever you're around, and the tension
between our eyes whenever they lock, like our lips once did.

But now, nothing but paper surrounds me in black and blue ink.
Written from top to bottom, they're worth some sort of story and
the synopsis just reads:
I loved you, I loved you, I loved you - first, foremost and possibly forever.

gd

I wrote a couple stanzas on the back of my transfer ticket
because it brought me to the same place we were 7 months ago,
except these two days contrasted each other in many ways -
similar to the whites of your eyes and the dark chocolate of your iris.

For one, spring is just beginning, which is contrary to when I saw your
smile blossom in the middle of the summer sun. The last time I stepped
foot in that transit booth I knew you were just a simple call away, but
now you're miles beyond my reach both physically and emotionally.

Shopping bags in tow, I left with tiny little trinkets full of life
(just like before) except none of them were you. Nonetheless,
I wrote a couple more stanzas and left a hook in the middle of the chorus
just so I could watch your remains fly away to fulfill its destiny:

a walking poem on the verge of tragedy.

gd

April has been making me feel like a fool,
and it's barely even started because
I see your face when you look at me
and it's the same way I looked at him.

Your eyes soften and your smiles inch upward,
but I know you feel like a fool with your
naive heart and hopeful thoughts; I'm sorry
I can't be who you want, I'm sorry
I can't say what you wish to hear, but most of all
I'm sorry that I don't feel sorry at all.

It's just too much of a risk with nothing worth the sacrifice,
which is exactly why I pushed you away
without any regret. In time, you'll see
that what you wanted could not have been me.
Selfish and Honest steer the same sails
if you look close enough at their hinges and intentions.

Then, I think back to how I looked at him
with the same soft eyes and genuine smile and
I realize he must have thought I was a fool too.
Partners in crime, but I was nothing but a punch-line.

gd

God, I need to stop writing about you.

But it seems my hand moves with your eyes
forcing me to forge letters with its movements,
and the words you say always sounds like music,
so by the time I look at my paper,
I've already written sheet music to last eternities.

I even went to meditation seminars in hopes of
finding peace within body and mind to get rid of you,
until I realized that you left a trail of your DNA
on the surface of my skin after the way you touched
every inch of me; its particles leaked its way
into the crevices and grooves of my brain.

And God, I just want to stop writing about you.

gd

Lately, it's been so hard to stay awake,

and       I'm just looking for signs
              to get me through these gloomy days
              I think about summer sunsets
              I think about us
              I think about how we were never
              really an "us" in the first place
              I think about disconnection (yours and mine)
              I think about the late nights I find comfort in
              I think about the early mornings
              that always start with dizzy thoughts
              I think about why it's been so hard to stay awake,
              when I have so much more to live for than this

gd

He's got me singing love songs, and I never
realized how foreign they became until
I was holding a brush in my hand, half-naked screaming
at the top of my lungs that maybe love is an open door;
an open door without an obstacle screen, and faulty locks.

And when the song ended on a high note, I realized
that I was so used to wallowing in the bass chords
of another sad tune to realize that this door was wide open -
past all the piano acoustics and vocal cracks between sniffles;
past the stressed fermatas and slow tearjerkers while I screamed

Mayday, please do not rain on my Parade again.

And in the first time in a long time, the sun is shining
and he looks at me everyday like you've only done once
or twice. And maybe, just maybe, I'm willing to break
the doorknobs you once taught me how to put together
just to keep this door slightly ajar a little while longer.

gd

She always told me to choose my battles,
but she was never really a fighter. She
was selective, and exclusive - creating
a stone fence around her kingdom, in
hopes of blocking all suffering and
trapping all the happening. She was head
strong, stubborn - liked to be right, even
when it meant doing something dead wrong.
"You keep your friends close, and your
enemies farthest," and that was how she
got by amongst those who were toxic. She
made homes out of rubble, and found
something magical when all and everyone
had left; it was a kingdom of only a few,
but it was hers. And she liked it that way.

                                   My mother always told me to choose my
                                   battles. And I never really understood until
                                   now. She was selective and exclusive, but
                                   she was cunning and realistic. Why risk
                                   warfare over the approval of one person,
                                   when you could spend your time creating a loyal
                                   army instead? Fighting for nothing but the
                                   upper-hand on some golden pedestal, I burned
                                   down the remains of my dignity and became
                                   a soldier I couldn't even look in the mirror. I
                                   fought to be the better person, all to risk
                                   becoming the complete opposite. I chose his
                                   battle, but I did not have to lose mine. So, I
                                   finally waved my white flag high, surrendered
                                   to the will of my own. And somehow that was
                                   just enough to win the war inside my mind.

gd

Newton told me that an object in motion tends to stay in motion,
but can he explain why my mind wanders
around the massive uncertainties of this universe
while my feet are kept planted in place?

He mentioned something about my mass and acceleration
creating some explainable force, but how can he account
for the way my heart flutters for miles
just by looking into his eyes?

What force am I creating
other than the force of utter, prodigal passion
that can neither be measured nor equated?
But maybe he got one thing right:

He mentioned something about every action
resulting in an opposite and equal reaction -
so is that why I go from feeling so much
to feeling nothing at all?

gd

Just another
drink they
whisper and
they think
                                  "what a waste of innocence, when                      
                                    you can gain some confidence."                        
Just a little sip,
sweet taste and
blood red lips -     
                                    another for the road even                                  
                          ­          after everything they've told,                          
you'll just stumble
for a boy who might
just leave you cold.

gd

You no longer cause hurricanes in my heart
like you used to with the bat of your eyes,
and I've realized I've grown tired
of the way you walk in short strides.

I'm tired of the lingering vowels in the way you speak,
and the distant silence you keep between us on purpose.
I can't fathom how I fell for your
selfish words and pungent scent.

I was so lost in love
(such a foul, sickening word indeed)
to even realize you would lead me
down the path of quite the opposite.

Your actions were misconstrued because your eyes
wandered where I could never dare to look -
past the deadly wood, into another realm where you
built a marble fence around, blocking me off entirely.

How much time I wasted trying to knock that wall over
when it could have been used for my own self-worth.
All the time I spent trying to make you happy,
whilst you did nothing but cause me sadness.

Such noble attributes of a prince
to leave his kingdom in the midst of a war,
leaving his lover to sort through the clutter,
and pay the price for being a "bother".

gd

I wonder if the stars gossip about the moon and sun,
            about whether or not they truly love each other or
                                                        absolute­ly hate each other's guts.*

i.
Because I bet they whisper about the way the sun disappears from sight the moment the moon says hello, or how the moon turns everything to darkness because of this constant disappointment. They probably laugh about the way the sun never finds a way to meet the moon halfway, or how its pride angers its core and causes heat waves to barrage the surface below.

I wonder if the stars ever really know anything. That maybe they have it completely wrong; that the sun and moon are opposite sides of the same spectrum that can never manage to meet in the middle.

ii.
Maybe they do love each other. Maybe the sun runs away from the cratered-creation because it's silhouette makes it shy, and the moon turns everything to darkness because it knows it must wait another lonely cycle just to get another chance - another glimpse. Maybe the sun radiates warmth in hopes it might be strong enough to reach the moon on the other side; strong enough to make them feel a little bit closer than they actually are.

I wonder if the stars speak about the moon and sun
     as if they were fated to burn out - or probably the latter,
                         which entails a miracle that might just last forever.

gd

Sketch a diary in autumn frost
leave behind a sorrow lost.
A night beneath whispering stars and
listen to their voices afar
for they may drift in colossal numbers
yet their words speak -
the words of the wise
and the words of the weak
for there lies a thousand wishes
so hopeful in brindled streaks

And at last they remain -
captured by the stars,
but freed from the night.

gd

It seems every single time
you walk back into my life I fall ill
under the heaviness of your stare.*

As if your irises could burn
similar circular orbs straight through my heart,
deteriorating my insides until
I can't find the means to even breathe anymore.
My mouth remains shut and
my throat is swelling closed.

Yet I am still debating on whether I should just let your stare
turn me to ashes, or use my extra ounce of effort for the latter -
to rapture a scream and finally force you out.

gd

After all this time, I could still
make out the slow movements of your mouth
through ****** speakers and static-filled telephone waves.
I could feel your tongue touching your lips an extra second more
whenever you talked; even the tiredness in your articulation
still reminded me of chocolate waterfalls.
After all this time, I still found comfort in your muffled tones.

It took all the courage I had (I hope you know)
to press those ten little digits I was so sure I had forgotten,
even as my heartbeat pumped through my ears like the drum solo
of my favourite song; loud enough for you to hear I was so sure.
Yet, my buried thoughts still crept around the grooves on my mind,
fighting against my senses to resist the urge
of revealing everything I really meant between the lines.
It went a little something like this:

Hi . . . uh, I know this is so out of the blue
I wish it wasn't this hard to say hello
I don't know, I just thought I'd see how you were doing
because I still care *******
How's everything?
I hope you'd say you'd missed me (too)
It's been a long time
It didn't have to turn out this way
Oh, how was . . .
I don't really care, I just need more time; more excuses to hear your voice
Well, it was really nice talking to you
please say this won't be our last good-
Bye.

- g.d.

How foolish of me to take a harmless quiz
to truly understand if I "got over" you yet.
Little did they know I walked across (and "got over")
the bridge we created a long while ago,
but I still remain on the other side
guarding it from unwanted visitors.

I "got over" the persistent reminders
that you would never say you loved me,
as well as the overwhelming whispers
that you would never walk me home anymore.
I "got over" your name falling to the bottom of my contact list,
and the fact that you never smiled when I was around.

I "got over" a lot of things, my dear,
yet I still took that test just to make sure
I "got over" your scent
and your touch and your taste.
And all it confirmed was:
not quite yet, but you're almost there.

I always knew quizzes were complete ******* because
boy, were they wrong.

- g.d.

Your touch used to feel like lightning; igniting my entire body
as if it were christmas lights you meant to wrap around the entire world.
Your fingertips followed dance routines on my arms,
leaving behind a path of hot embers right down to my thighs.

You set off fireworks in my chest the moment our skin
brushed against each other's ever so slightly;
those Roman Candles were almost lethal,
but it seems your extremities could revive me even after death.

You'd trigger static and sparks that would light up my eyes
and leave a tingling sensation through every limb.

I don't know what you did, my dear -
you materialized me -
made me inanimate just by your touch,
only awakened by the currents you transferred through your palms.

It's as if I were a light bulb,
plugged in forevermore in the socket of your grip.
You were electricity, darling, and I was water; my voltaic shock was inevitable.
You were fire and a sweet, sweet tempting bomb of affection I couldn't resist -
                        tick,
                                 tick,
                                          tick,
                                                    tock.
With all that energy we were bound to burn out.

But, in some attempt of insanity, you reached for my hand today
and I swore I saw those sparks start to pour out of your fingers once again.
And I almost reached out, drawn in by the flare
and ready for the charge to hit me like a murderer's bullet

almost

but instead,
I flinched.

- g.d.

A penny for your thoughts,
kind sir?
because it seems you've gone
s i l e n t .

In fact, maybe I'll give you a dime,
no, make it a quarter
because call me selfish but twenty-five of your thoughts
might just help me get through the day.

I know you're not fond of uttering your feelings,
but I'm hoping you'll make an exception.
I'd fill your coin jar to the rim
if it meant you'd say my name again.

I'd let it overflow in gold and silver,
maybe a couple bills here and there
if it meant you smiling.
*******,

would you like my entire savings, as well? Because
I'd pay twice the wager to hear your laugh slice through the air.
A penny for your thoughts, kind sir?

Because it seems you've disappeared for quite too long.

- g.d.

I can feel my heart mending.
I can feel the thread pinching
in and out coating the exterior
in a protective layer of glass.

I can feel the irregular beat return to its natural state,
and most of all, I can feel the veins
fill with hot rushing blood
trying to reach the ends of my extremities.

But I hate it.

Why is it that when I finally sew the stitch,
I would rather rip it wipe open for the
diseased thoughts of you to make its way through
and infect my soul once again?

As if my heart is mending over replicas of recovery.
And when all is said and done,
these trapped grains of sand will come pouring out,
leaving my chest just as hollow as it is supposed to be.

You see, I can't seem to unleash myself
from the remains of your embrace.

It's as if I can feel my heart mending
but I'm afraid of losing you so much so that I wouldn't think twice
to break it all over again the moment it is repaired.
I'm torturing myself with broken memories and empty promises;

I am the master of my own destruction.
And you, my dear,
are the devil on my shoulder whispering,
"One more stab for the road, it'll make you stronger I solemnly swear."

- g.d.

If I had a penny for every single time you crossed my mind,
well, I would have gold bleeding out of my pores,
and every step I take would leave behind
a footprint made of diamonds.

With the wealth of the world,
I would be able to visit the stars every single night;
maybe even build a castle at the centre of the universe
just for us.

But darling,
I'd trade it all
if it meant you'd throw away your pride
and hold my hand one last time.

- g.d.

I find some sort of satisfaction
getting under your skin, taking a trip
along the train tracks of your blood vessels
just to see how much you can take before you snap.

Maybe I'll look for some gold while I'm there,
since everything gold does not glitter,
I'm sure your shadowed carcass
will do me some justice.

I'll kick the soils of your tissues,
possibly dig holes in your pores
to find a nerve you
never cared to show me.

I'll paint mosaics and tapestries
on the pasty walls of your bones,
then smash my creations into pieces
to find the secrets stored in your marrow.

I will scratch at the layers
to remember where I'd already made my mark
and run through your bloodstream
to find my way around.

Then, I will bathe in the fluid,
changing its colour from red to
crimson, in hopes you'll
waste your blood on some actual effort.

I'll make music out of your ribs,
punching them with a flux of force,
trying to find the right octaves in creating a scale,
or maybe an étude.

I'll play them over and over
until they get tired of the noise;
get tired of being used for pleasure
in favour of my own ears.

Then maybe, just maybe,
I'll finally reach your heart

and I'll jump on it like a trampoline,
roll down its ***** as if it were a hill,
switch its ventricles and slide down its arteries
aiming for some sort of reaction,

just so I know a heart so bitter might just actually work.

- g.d.

I wrote you a letter
about how the sun shone brightest whenever
I caught sight of your smile, and how blue
the sky grew whenever you held my hand.

I wrote it
about the day I fell in love with you
when you did everything right,
so I ended up walking the wrong way home

getting lost in the thoughts of you and
lovestruck
by the potion you probably slipped
into my vanilla coke.

I wrote it
in memory of our first kiss
which triggered fireworks, so hot,
the embers turned into flames,
burning our fingertips but
keeping our lips fused together.

I wrote you a story
about how your laugh made me giggle,
and your touch always soft
as it explored my limbs and
caressed my heart;

how the dimples under your lips
melted me like ice,
or how your scent could bring
angels down from heaven;

I wrote you a chorus
to put into words
how you made me feel
more than human;

how my heart dropped
at the sound of your voice,
and rose again
at the mention of your name.

You see, I wrote you a letter
to tell you how much I loved you,
yet by the time I signed it off With Love,
you no longer loved me in return.

- g.d.

I haven't stayed up this late
since our restless early morning contests
to see who would fall victim to
heavy eyelids and tired thoughts.
I won of course, you most of the time,
but I won on the longest nights (or so I'd like to think)
though my satisfaction was rooted from
something entirely different.
To be honest, I could have cared less about the victor;
I was competitive but I liked when you won -
the shine in your voice and
the glimmer in your smile telling me
how I snored through the night (I didn't)
was much more rewarding.

I haven't stayed up this long
since our late night conversations
turned into early morning slurred sentences
of who could make the most sense
whilst repeating I love you
inaudibly through earphone speakers
and bundled blankets.
And as much as the tiredness
enveloped me in its embrace,
the thought of yours implied through
the telephone waves proved
to be worthwhile, nonetheless.
You were miles beyond my reach,
but you were simple words away.

I haven't stayed up this late
since we fell asleep falling in love
in different beds but with the same desires,
on the same line; on the same page.
And I hate to admit it,
but I still like to think of it that way.

- g.d.

The last time you looked at me with love
was somewhere between September,
where summer was nearing its end and
autumn was saying hello.

The last time you said you loved me
was Thanksgiving weekend, when you reminded me
how your world only consisted of my presence and
"grateful" was an innocent understatement to define how you felt.

The last time you held my hand
you wrapped my fingers in every crevice of your grip
squeezing it tight as if
never wanting to let me go.

The last time you kissed me
was a passionate concoction
embroidered on the satin fabric
of lust and love.

You picked me up from behind,
spun me around my living room
and kissed me against my front door
as if there was going to be a next time.

But Christmas has presented itself like a shooting star:
visible but barely there, flashing by in a second only to steal all your wishes.
And it has come to my attention that it's been far too long
since you've even allowed my name to roll off your tongue.

The last time you talked to me* was at a mutual friend's party,
where my heart became nervous, an all too old sensation,
to even have the courage to talk to you
wondering if your voice would be warm even with the belligerent wind outside.  

The last time I felt your embrace
was the exact same day, given in an awkward stance,
ending with you walking out the door where
winter awaited to kiss your cheeks because I had no right to anymore.

And this time, you didn't look at me with love, or kiss me from behind.
This time, you used your hands to push me away,
and that's when it crossed my mind that
those three little words abruptly became Latin on your native English tongue.

Though those were the last times I had any signs of your presence still physically in my life,
they weren't the last times I dreamt of you, longed for your hand (or kiss or hug), or loved you.
But as a new dawn rounds the corner, I solemnly swear today -
today will be the last time I miss you.

                                                        ­        *Or at least I'll try to.

- g.d.

In my mind, I'm putting all the things that remind me of you in a box to leave in the back shelf of my unconscious until these things have changed from objects of dispair, to ones I can look back on and smile about rather than frown - maybe not now, but somewhere, sometime, somehow hopefully soon:

a box of Cheerios because they were your favourite,

Colgate toothpaste because that's what you tasted like,

the notes you left in my locker when you used to pass by every morning,

a cantaloupe because "soft fruits help you kiss better,"

almonds, and nuts in general, because you always talked about bulking diets and were a little nuts to be honest,

a pair of Sperry's because you wore them with everything,

a movie ticket because that was our first "date," and you worked at the local theatre,

a hockey stick because you loved the sport with all your heart,

a CD with a single track on it: Let Her Go by Passenger because you told me that was your favourite song and I hope it's the one you listen to when thinking about me,

and last but certainly not least,
a vile of the scent you wore every single day that I could never manage to decipher even up to now.

- g.d.

This midnight darkness has cast shadows over my thoughts and rain clouds over my heart. And I think the saddest moment of our lives arise when we come to realize and understand our forgetfulness.

i.
I don't remember how it feels to have the wind blow against my face as I race my way around fences and bushes just to get a "tag." I forgot the vivid rhythm needed to create the perfect snow angel on a winter's afternoon, or the taste of snowflakes on the tip of my tongue. I cannot recall the smell of chocolate cakes my mother used to bake in our old kitchen, nor reaching up for a slice with my seemingly short hair and small hands. Neither do I remember how it sounded when I used to race down the stairs on Christmas Day looking for Santa's treasures. As well as the bittersweet excitement whenever I lost a tooth. Not even the fresh smell of rain for I feel as if I've been stuck in the drought of my mind for the longest time. All of these things are things I used to love; used to look forward to, and now they've lost their fireworks and have only remained in my life as dying embers within the midst of time and fate. I've seemed to outgrow these memories as if they were light-up sneakers and childhood overalls. And that's what I'm scared of: somehow I've come to lose everything about me, becoming replaced with this new socially acceptable person. But how much pure emotion does this hold now that I've grown? Is this overpriced down-feathered pillow truly as comforting as the eight stuffed animals that once kept me company?

Everybody just seems to get tired of everything so they replace their miscellaneous junk, replace their belongings, their clothes, their friends - themselves. How have we become so detached from the things we've seemed to love with all our hearts? And this question always leads me back to you.

ii.
You weren't the smell of chocolate cake, or the taste of snowflakes. You weren't the feel of wind or the sound of Christmas - but you were close. Oh boy, were you close. But now it seems so hard to keep this shelf in my mind empty just for you when I know you do not belong there anymore. But I can't bear to think that you will become irrelevant to me for the years to come. One day, I will see you again and you'll look similar, smell similar, probably feel similar but I know just like every other ephemeral thing, you will be different from what you are now. And I don't know if, at that moment, my heart will crumble under the realization of our burned memories, or if I will go on numbly as if they never existed. Maybe, someone will even catch me looking your way and she'll ask if I ever knew you because me gaze seemed to imply to. Then I'll file through the memory cabinets in my mind trying to recall the feel of your lips
and the touch of your hand
and the light in your eyes
and smirk in your smile
and the swing in your step
and the sting in your voice
and the weight of your affection.... but nothing will be recalled. I will watch our black and white silent story play through my head, follow your stride as you walk away from my sight like the very last time I saw you, and I will long for some soft of feeling, similar to the mountain I possess now, but I'm afraid none of this will be remembered. I will stare numbly down your path, maybe even fake a smile, turn my attention back to her question and only have the heart to say

"I used to."

- g.d.