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.

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.

I wonder if you stitched yourself into my skin
when I wasn't looking because I am still catching whiffs
of your scent as if it sat right beside me
with a glimmering smile and kind words to say.

But I'm exhausted and worn out
like that faded red t-shirt you stopped wearing,
and I can't help but think if it's because my scent still lingered
when I first fit my arms through on that fall afternoon.

Except I know you've probably washed it
once, twice, maybe thrice for good luck
but unlike cotton,
your etched aroma isn't so easy to scrub out.

Trust me, I've tried.

gd

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.

Pitch-black and silent; another two am asylum.
And I found myself reaching for another tube of toothpaste
only to pray it didn't taste like you.
Yet a sigh of relief was matched with a sigh of despair
as I came to the realization
that I was losing my grip on a lot of things about us.

Even if I tried, I wouldn't be able to remember
most of our defining angles and edges
that were once so sharp.
So I scoured the stars this late at night
only to lose touch with gravity
and to hear my mind yelling back through the void,

"you should have known,
                       you should have known."

They say smell is the closest sense to memory,
but I was so sure that after all this time
the taste buds on my tongue
could still decipher the fibres from your mint mouth.
But in that moment, I couldn't remember
that you had already forgotten about me before the sun even set.

gd

Sometimes I find myself searching
and searching
for pieces of myself that
I've never really wanted in the first place.

And I'll keep that pamphlet,
and I'll cherish that trinket,
and I'll store that bus ticket
just for safe keeping.

And I'll sleep for hours
to see if I can find
what I've lost
in my subconscious

but over
and over again
I find things I never wanted
in the first place

and I'll throw them into the sea
only to swim back to shore,
too late and too far gone
to realize I'm going to have to jump back in.

And maybe I'm talking in circles
and maybe I never really belonged
anywhere
other than where I sleep for the night

Or wherever I decided to
set foot to scavenge
for any remains of myself
that I took for granted.

Maybe a nomad
only finds peace
at the edge of losing everything.
Or maybe they never find peace at all.

gd

You turned
me into ash;
I turned you
into poetry.

gd

It was quite funny because
you told me you hated poetry today.

Appalled and speechless
I just stared blankly at your amusement
because little did you know,
I saw every language run down your smile;

I watched words sputter out from your eyelashes
and could make out the faint heartbeat
of a poem waiting to happen.

Plastered all over your face,
twisting into metaphorical features,
unlocking a gateway towards iconic alliteration, and
found the foreign flutter in the irony between your syllables.

You told me you hated poetry,
and I laughed because when I looked at you,
all I saw was a poem.

gd

Sometimes I feel like I'm the worst type of pessimist.
At heart I'm an optimist, looking past the highest mountains,
trying to reach the sky with the tips of my fingers and
catch the clouds at the base of my palms.

However, in head,
I'm the biggest pessimist
finding the dark spots on the sunniest days,
herding death between the cracks in the concrete.

And the head is like the heart's big sister,
telling her to take a step back and make sure of her actions,
bossing her around, burning out her spark,
leaving the dead of the night with nothing but doubt.

But you've got my lips coated in sugar and
my intentions wrapped in flames.
You've got my heart scrapping its knees and
my head spinning

Because who would've thought
it'd finally meet its match,
unable to hold something down
with two hands and keep it in place.

But both of them are undoubtedly worried,
darling.
They're running for the hills and
finding a place to set camp where you'd never find.

Empty handed and confused, they're still searching and
the only thing going through their thoughts remains to be

"there's still time to run
          there's still time to run
                  there's still time
                            just move your feet,
                                       don't look back
                                                 and run
                                                         as fast as you can."

gd

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.

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

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.

Our ambivalent choices lead to impulsive actions
and every inch of your scent pulled me in like a rope,
unable to set myself free.
Your eyes like lighthouses to guide me from the tempest in my mind;
your pulse to the beat of my heart -

racing and heightened with emotions of lust and love,
merging the two as if they were one.
Every kiss sent shivers down my spine,
and a trial of flames down my skin.

You left scars in my heart
the same way you left them on my neck -
bruised and aching for your love.
A voice so cynical and undeserving

once told me of a love story so tragic it could only be true.
Regretful and confused, have I given away my dignity?
When you’ve given all your love,
what more is there to give than lust and pity?

In the darkest corners of my mind,
you stand there walking away and coming towards me
at the same time. Your eyes like lighthouses,
but your lips like satin,

your touch like alcohol: addictive and tempting.
Your scent so captivating,
while your kisses inescapable. You see,
you live in the darkest corners because you are the lamp in the dark

and the weakness in my soul. You have me lost within myself
with every smirk and smile.
I am bruised and aching for something I shouldn’t.
You are the wind and the sun

and every season I await to bask in.
Cross my heart and hope to die,
you are my courage wrapped in the scent
that make my knees go weak.

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                             - 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.

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 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.

There's something knocking at the back of my mind
and it sounds like pebbles hitting the nerves if my temporal lobe.

It's tapping in morse code and I can almost hear it
singing all those songs I was meant to forget.
They're slower though—acoustic and remixed
to the dying beat of all our memories.

If I focus on it long enough
I could probably pinpoint where it's coming from,
but I know I'm just choosing not to.
If I focus on it hard enough,
I could probably repaint its rainbow splatters on a canvas,
but I'm just choosing not to.

If I focus on it long enough,
I might just hear your voice again—
coated sweet nothings in nothing but syrup,
but I'm just choosing not to because

you never chose me, darling.

Even until now, we flinch at the sight of each other
rather than letting the light consume us like all the times before.

And maybe I'm just mad at the stars for not giving me some sort of sign
or godforsaken comet to warn me from falling for you the first time,
or the second,
or over and over again

Because it's not fair that you've still got my head spinning
when I cut every single piece of red thread that tied us together.
It's not fair that you've got me second guessing my present
because of the ashes and rotting debris of the past.

There's something knocking at the back of my mind.
It's tapping in morse code
about all the questions you left hanging in mid-air.
The thumping is getting louder and I can't—

I can't make it stop.

gd

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.

Don't look too proud, darling,
because dignity is dripping off
the Swarovski crystals on this
broken chandelier and your
name is the last thing they
would spell out if they came
crashing down. A bunch of
boisterous words & boastful
stories won't get you very far
except for a couple steps
[s d a r w k c a b]

And if you wanted to dabble
a chord on my heart strings,
it would have been easier to
not say anything at all, but
your once dormant thoughts
began pouring out of your
once silent lips in some childish
attempt to rattle some sort of
r      a      t       o    
   e       c      i       n

And behind those innocent
eyes lie only craters you dug
out of yourself because of
your own selfish pride. So
don't act too proud, darling,
speak a little louder and you'll
end up biting off your own
t   o   n   g   u   e   .

gd

Everybody is falling in love
                 and I'm just falling further
                 into the depths of some
                 monstrous black hole I dug in
                 the back wall of my closet.

Everybody is falling in love
                 and I'm just falling asleep
                 under some mysterious concoction
                 you injected into me when I got caught up
                 in your faulty promises, but I should have known
                 that you were nothing but an awful distraction

Everybody is falling in love
                 and I can't help but remind myself that these clouds above me
                 will only remain grey until some external force sweeps me off my feet
                 and carries me towards the highest mountains with a stunning view,
                 and he'll set me on the ground and I'll make a run for the edge
                 only to think twice before jumping off because

                 you ruined me in all the right places  
                 just to make sure everything felt so wrong after you left.

Everybody is falling in love**
                 and I can't help but notice that the weather seems to be looking up
                 and I can't help but hope for it to come crashing down;
                 for the sea to break through the cracks in the concrete
                 so I'll never have to see your face again
                 and you'll never get to see hers either.

gd

Remember when you bought me three pears
because you knew I loved them? One wasn't
ripe at all—took the jaw of lion to crack that
open. Another had gotten smushed under the
weight of my books, leaving pear juice and
residue at the bottom of my backpack, and the
last just made the cut but fell to the floor after
my second bite. We laughed it off, smiling like
lovers & I told you that you ****** at choosing
fruit. But yesterday I stumbled around the city,
intoxicated and nostalgic under all those lights,
trying to grasp any form of support, hoping it
would be your hand on the other end. Passing
the same spot from our first date and that time
we skipped school just to feel invinsible and so
in love, I realized that those three pears were just
some twisted reminder that we ****** at timing,
too.

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

I.
I still get flashbacks.
Like that time we explored a forest at a whim
and found out we had a thing for bridges.

And I think it was because we were both awestruck
with how easily we were connected by two apposing worlds,
so we made our way to the middle of the arc to claim it as ours.
And you used to hold me from behind with satin hands;
a soft satin parachute
that was ready to catch me if I ever fell.

And every single time I did, you were there.
You cupped my big cheeks,
the ones you always made fun of,
and kissed me for the first time in the middle of green and bush
like we were the first humans on earth,
destined to be the last.

II.
But now I'm staring out the window of my car
and I'm freezing inside and out.
The earth is no longer green;
it's white,
plain Jane
and frozen.

It's surface is glistening against the moon
and I'm witnessing more sleepless nights
than I did when your presence was still part of my life.
The sheets of snow look like sheets of cotton,
so close to satin.
So close.

But I promise you, Love,
they could never replicate your touch.

It's covering the soil we used to explore on,
as well as my leftover slivers of sanity
I've barley managed to scavenge.
And I can almost guarantee,
if I fall,
nothing will be there to catch me.

I still get flashbacks, mostly of our bridge.
But it's just a memory now
because all the green and bush and trees
that once surrounded us have gone silent,
all the trees have forgotten who we are,
all the trees have turned to ash.

gd

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.

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

It just doesn't work, trust me.
You said matter-of-factly in the tone of voice
that could have persuaded me to do anything,
except believe this.

No, it does. It just requires both people to put some effort in.
I remember myself contemplating
and convincing you;
trying to make you believe it was possible, because it had to be.

Exes can't be friends after everything. It just doesn't work.
You told me of all the others
pretty and playful who ran away with your heart
but never gave it back.

But for the longest time, I tried to prove you wrong
tried to make us invinsible in some sort of way
tried to make you see in a new sort of light
tried to show you it wasn't that hard
tried to hold on to what we had
tried to keep our friendship
tried to be the exception
tried to keep us intact
tried to find a way
tried to be more
tried to stay
tried to
tried

But I just came out breathless and heartless
because I hate to admit it, but
god, you were right.*

gd