How did we shatter our innocence?

Tripping over the laces we tied together,
building homes solely out of old memories,
finding comfort in our worst pieces of skin
and calling it love at 3am
crying about insecurities and infidelities.

Darling, how can it still be called love
when the fires are burning down our sanctuaries, and our sanities?
How can it still be called love
when our foundations no longer mimic the Great Wall of China,
or stand indestructible like the concrete Pyramids of Egypt?

We are paper thin
and just as fragile
as the tiny paper houses
we used to make out of playing cards.

Our hands no longer fit
like perfect puzzle pieces -
they mimic sheets of sandpaper instead,
scratching out every ounce of sincerity
we once engraved into each other's palms.

Our footsteps fall separate octaves away,
out of sync and out of touch,
in this **** grand scheme
somehow labelled a masterpiece.

We were once flawless.
But now we've just made flaws
out of every single thing we used to fall for.
Now, we're just flawed.

gd

I.
I've got piles of poems lying at the back of my mind
and they all whisper your name
and try to get me to cave
into the moons of your eyes
when you smile a little too hard and
they reach up until the sides of your irises.

But my heart always beats a little too much
and a little too late when I think about you.
It's singing love songs and causing chaos
ahead,
and above,
and all around this **** place.

And maybe, just maybe,
I'm in for much more than I expected
because I'm getting caught up
in potpourri promises
and hope—
stupid hope.

I've got so much on my mind,
and the majority has engraved
w o r r y
into the lining of my temporal lobe
because I cannot seem to shake out your voice
and your smile

and hands
and how they held mine with such clarity
and sincerity
and it's your laugh when you throw your head backwards in exasperation
and when you look at me with those eyes—
those crazy brown eyes.

II.
But I can't tell if I'm losing my mind again
or just throwing it around like a soccer ball
to feel something.

I just don't want you to wake up one day,
with fire in your eyes
and flames at your fingertips

trying to resist the steam rising from your ears
and your smile will fade into the smoke
and your eyes won't mirror my awe

because in that moment I might just burn to ash
at the sight of you changing your mind,
darling.

I might just disintegrate
at the thought of you turning around
and never looking back.

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

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 watched you fall out of love.
Slowly, then gradually,
then all at once.
Only now am I realizing it;
everything about you drifted
into a space I could no longer reach.

I watched as your eyes changed with the seasons -
your vibrant summer glance
turned cold and gloomy with the autumn breeze.
Your hands, once warm and tight,
loosened with your smile.
It was no longer firm and gleaming,
but rather forced in a dead straight line
laced with words so harsh they mimicked the sharpness of
ice.

And your laugh,
oh that laugh,
no longer echoed in my mind with such simplicity;
never was it once again renewed or reheard,
just replayed over
and over
and over
before it faded backwards through my ears,
past my skull,
to the hairs on my neck
which no longer showed any signs of your lips.

Sincere sighs of wonder
became solid sighs of impatience.
Slowly, but surely,
your tired brown eyes and the heaviness of your stride,
said everything you didn't have to say.
Slowly, but surely,
your stare became dull
and your embrace no longer wrapped me with comfort.
Slowly, but surely,
your lips no longer tasted of fresh mint love,
that I memorized oh so well.

There was always too much on the line,
and even though I tried
to grab
and reach
and hold onto something,
I always came up empty
like the void in my chest that grew
every single time
I watched you fall out of love
with me.

- g.d.

The first one hurts the longest.
The second one hurts the hardest.
And the third one doesn't hurt at all.

He's your fifth 4am ***** shot
your beer pong binger
your 6am hook up,
numbing every nerve in your entire body

and it feels the best but ends up the worst at 5am
when he's holding your hair over the toilet
and singing you to sleep
when he's lacing his fingers through your hair

and your waist
and your hands
and through the tiny fractured crevices
between your injured heart.

The third is the tallest climb
the longest fall
the most honest hour
the pounding hangover and

the beaten emotions you never even knew you kept pent up
until he's slipping his tongue through your mouth
and you're pulling his bottom lip to pull him closer
to let him take whatever is even left of you.

The third is your weakness
because he will catch your heart when it's still on your sleeve,
tattered and stained from the ***** you threw up
as easily as the words that got him to hold you like he used to.

The third will whisper
the third will listen
the third will taste like the butterflies you thought you poisoned.

But the third is definitely a charm.

gd

I met this guy in
white Ralph Lauren
and right then and there
I knew we couldn't be friends.

We clicked like a puzzle;
literally every piece seemed to interlock
and I couldn't keep my eyes away
as if this burning desire lay between us
across some paperweight bridge of tension
and affection

and please, I just want to cross it
and I want to throw my hands up
and scream to the mountains
and just yell ***** it! at the top of my lungs
and plunge into whatever void his presence has planned for me

because I can't seem to
shake him off of my mind,
so I know this is already bad.

I can feel it chattering and creating a
foundation under my epidermis
scattering my nerves in places
I did not think were possible
and there sits a bed-sized
crater just for him. And I
know it's bad, I know
it. And I shouldn't
even care and I
shouldn't let it
happen but
here I am
o  n  c  e
again.

gd

Please do not sing me to sleep
For I might crumble under the weight of your harmony.
Please do not look at me with those wide, bright eyes
For I might look away from the sight of such faultlessness.

Please do not read to me,
Nor speak to me with a poet’s articulation.
Leave me be with the thoughts of your imperfections
For I might drown at your touch.

I am the girl who falls for the words;
I am the girl with the weak knees and the stutter
Whenever you walk into the room.
I am the girl who will love the sound of your hum,

And the feel of your hands.
Just as easily as a pencil,
I will break under the weight of affection.
I will be carried away by the expressions of your timbre,

So please do not leave me at a cliff-hanger;
Do not let me become captivated
By the stressed syllables and the curve of your laugh.
Please do not break me by the sound of your voice

For just like the words I am fragile –
I am the girl who falls for them.
I am the girl with the lyrical thoughts,
Merely captivated by your lyrical being.

                                                              - g.d.

Sometimes you meet people that you grow to love.
And then other times, you cross paths with some
that just click with your senses;
heighten your emotions so high everything else seems to disappear.

But beware of those who just snap into place
for they will inject their venom
into the depths of your heart
and leave skid marks on the surface.

They will plaster your atriums with Picasso murals
and sheet music from Bach
only to cover the walls with kerosene
and burn it to the ground for the sole soul-wrenching sake of "art".

And that's okay, you will live on.

But there will still be scars at the entrance sites from every drop of poison.
There will still be scars from the train tracks he carved
from the bat of his eyes and the pucker of his lips.
There will still be scars from the blaze

because when fire burns it does so
passionately
carelessly
wonderfully with furiosity  

And you will find pieces of clay under different piles of ash;
You will find treble clefs and fermatas
hidden under every ember that was left to die.
You will still find beauty in the destruction.

And maybe it's still okay to admire the ruins,
even just for a little while.

gd

There's a pulsing in my head I can't seem to shake off
and it always beats to the rhythm of your breath.

& because of this I can't seem to pick up
another black or blue pen for my life because
it still leaks the words you told me;
still leaks the words that used to be true.

& I think that's what baffles me the most:
that words remain in the moment - just like pictures
and carved wood - but as time passes by they
lose their meaning and fade away like dust in a sandstorm.

& there I sit, right at the eye of the tempest
waiting for the pulsing in my temples to subside
in the dead of the night with nothing but
the silence to keep me company and the chaos to keep me warm.

gd

I don't understand what I want.
I feel like I'm cutting through a layer of thick metal,
enduring the sound of scraping steel scratch from surface to centre
and I'm not getting through—through to you.

I talked about him today. Embraced his disappearance in my memory
and seemed to watch him walk away all over again.
I was washed with emotion and serene understanding
of some in depth sentiment that I only found intact with him.

And it just ******* ***** because I acknowledge my surroundings—
they're printed and plastered all over in bright reds and yellows
making room for summertime without the sadness—
yet some void remains sat square in the middle;

Some lost hope, unable to make sense of what exactly belongs there.
And I'm cutting through layers of other peoples' minds
to see if their context can create art with my emotions.
But it's nothing but dull.

It's all surface and no substance,
which discourages the complexity of my being
and causes the wind from the outdoor tempest to reach
the ends of my eyelashes and the edges of my clenched teeth.

What I'm trying to say is, maybe I'm expecting too much from you.
I'm imagining mansions and kaleidoscope chemistry
with sparks sputtering out of my mouth
in the form of stutters and laughs that keep me breathless.

But instead, I'm getting dying embers,
that come from the scorching coal path of my memories burning beneath my feet.
I'm expecting too much, but I can't risk expecting nothing at all
for someone who can't even make my fingertips tingle or cause my heart to race.

Especially because I know the feeling of awe;
especially because I've felt it all before.

gd

How troublesome it is trying to forget you.
Every twist, turn and shift
leads right back to your eyes,
which never seem to be looking back at mine.

I'm stuck in this pool of quicksand
filled to the rim with memories of seeing you,
feeling you, hearing you,
loving you.

In my head - like a flash of lighting or
Halley's Comet -
I beg and plead for a wish,
any wish in the moment to

guide me away
from the tormenting vivid doubts of my own mind
and lead me back into your arms.
But it never ends up that way;

what a troublesome act it is trying to forget you
when all I can see,
feel,
and hear

triggers the inner depths of my emotions;
the shallowness of my breaths;
my liquid stained eyes similar
to the stains of red and purple you once left on my neck,

and my gleaming pearly whites I flash for the cameras
who know nothing but my face -
contrary to the knowledge I have of you touch,
your stride, your lips on mine,
your scent hypnotic in such a troublesome way.

It truly is such a troublesome act trying to forget you,
when everything I've been left with
is sewn and threaded with reminders to
always remember.

- g.d.

Between cold sheets and muffled giggles,
I remember whispering a harmless
little sentence whilst the
dead of night struggled to live:

"I've never been more sure of anything else in my entire life."

only to end up empty hearted
and empty handed
hanging on for dear life onto
the last plank of our broken bridge.

Needless to say, you lifted four of
my fragile fingers with a slow precision,
ending me off with my pinky to make sure
I watched you break the rest of our promises.

gd

I'm running on
black coffee and
a couple faded
dreams all for
the sake of some
promising future.
But if we would
all just be honest
with ourselves,
we'd realize that
promises were
solely made to
be broken, and
another cup of
coffee will only
make my dreams
disappear.

gd

I'm trying to mine for gold under all this rock
solid ornaments of disarrayed desires. And I
am having trouble coming to terms with how
I've been flipped upside down one hundred &
eighty degrees without a single warning; not
a single foreshadow from my past personas.

And I cannot even piece this puzzle without
finding a couple lost causes stuffed under beds
and old covers that hid everything else I could
never really come to terms with, face-to-face,
unable to find the solid grace. And I can already
imagine him trying to impress you—flirting with
ease. And you fall for it every single time, love,
because your heart is caught on the inside of your
sleeves.

gd

I.
You were supposed to last. And I think this very statement is the reason for the sudden pangs of pain in my heart.

II.
I am a ticking time bomb, and even the thought of your name—the slow rhythmic articulation from that first letter to the last—is causing an eerie, yet familiar, squeeze on my heart. And I'm pinching myself in every single place that you touched as an attempt to make myself aware that you're never going to touch those place again. But I'm tired, Love. I'm tired of having to pinch myself every single day just as a reminder that your were real. Were. And for the past couple weeks, I thought I had it all together, soaring over the mourning only for it to come knocking at my door with every memory you managed to leave me breathless with.

III.
But don't be fooled by time. Time doesn't heal anything. If anything, it is only a master of torture: playing around with your efforts at forgetting, then flaunts all the promises you ever made in front of your face just so it can film your features when it shreds it to pieces. Time does nothing for you. And at this point, I'm afraid it's using up every muscle and nerve in my body not to pick up the phone and tell you I'm willing to settle.

IV.
You were the best thing for me; that just doesn't leave! It doesn't walk out the door or tells you you're gonna find someone great. It doesn't break up with you as you're on the ground in tears. It doesn't kiss you with sincerity and then never even looks back.  It doesn't shatter your heart, your poor glass heart with a boulder and then make you watch as the shards are ground to grains. It doesn't leave you, not like that. And it for sure doesn't linger. It doesn't stick around because it shouldn't have to.

V.
It doesn't ask to be in your life even after it cuts the wound. Because it's supposed to last. You were supposed to last.

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

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

I have been collecting plane tickets
without even realizing that
they've been collecting dust
in the corners of my room.

But how ironic it is,
presenting itself in plain sight,
watching the matter of time
build up around all these memories

Memories as fleeting
and as temporary
as the pile of dust
clinging to its own past

I just find it so difficult to wrestle
with the beating of my heart
because it creates a song
that leaves me in awe

Paralyzed,
frozen in place,
forcing me to listen
and wanting me to stay

And foreshadowed nostalgia
always seems to run its fingers
down my spine
at the most inconvenient times

Because I still haven't found home

Or maybe I have -
Maybe the bright lights
and the city traffic
have always been calling my name

And I always find my fists clenched
every time the sun sets for the moon,
stealing the day and
distinguishing the light

I am just so tired of saying goodbye.
I'm tired of sleeping the night
knowing that I'll be
gone in the morning

I'm tired of the car rides
and the plane lines,
and the endless paper tickets
that remind me

I'm somewhere else than where I should be

Always on a path less travelled by -
but little did I know
I'd have to do it alone
on some barren road that always feels cold.

gd

They were crazy about each other
and that was the problem.
Everything was meant to be laced
with flames and extravagant passion.

Below the blistering winds of winter
were these lovers wearing nothing but their hearts
and sooner or later they were bound to get burned and scarred,
bruised and confused about the madness they drowned in.

But in that moment,
nothing held truer than his hand in hers
and his eyes full of sincerity
and sweet clarity.  

And I swore they could've burst into flames
if they weren't fused together by their fingers,
as if some magnetic ripple navigated the
thump thump thump

throughout their nerves—
so loud and so prominent it demanded to be heard.
And I heard it, behind the sheaths of snow,
under the overpass and between the bundled bystanders.

They were crazy about each other.

gd

I miss your beating heart making music in my ears.
They used to sing lullabies
that would always leave me drowsy in desires,
and I wonder if you still hum as often as you used to.

Because that was the mood shift,
the tell tale sign that you were happy.
A soft rift here, another octave there;
I miss that sound because it always filled the silence with serenity.

Recently however, silence has been all I've been used to.
And the only beating heart I'm hearing is my own,
running like I've been running miles.
But in actuality

I've only been sitting still, staring at ceilings
wondering if I could turn back time
I wouldn't have had to watch you turn around
and never look back.

My hands always shake just thinking about you
and I can't help but wonder if maybe
it's because your fingers are no longer intertwined
to keep them still.

I miss the warmth and the pure comfort.
I'm wearing layers and fake smiles
and I can't even think about tomorrow
without wondering how things would be different

if you were here today.

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

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

Maybe one day I will wake up
having to take an extra second to remember your voice.
One day, I might just stop
getting hung up on ten little numbers I will never have.

One day, my eyes won't dart around in circles
looking for yours and one day
my heart won't tense up at the mention of your name.
But most of all,

One day I will no longer feel as if I have lost more than I have loved.

But till then,
amidst the pink and blue paintings of the summer skies,
I have stayed grounded
forced by the memories of your touch to keep me in place.

With heightened emotions and faulty desires,
I have become less than brave.
Cowering to the past,
letting the green grass stain my toes with their fibres—

I have let the sun shine on my skin without notice of its plan
to embed itself and linger a little while longer than it should.
I have let the thought of you shade my thoughts for ages,
and I know one day they will all disappear, disintegrate with the clouds.

But I'm a little bit lonely
with nothing but faded company,
so it shouldn't be enough,
but it might as well be.

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