These nights are meant
to be spent sitting on a balcony
overlooking the city and
its lights splattered across the
darkness.
But I will gladly pass it away,
over and over again,
to the next random person by the street,
for the sake of all madness that there is,
Until the rain decides to fall again
Until we meet again
or not meet again.
Until your laughter ceases to define
the kind of person I want to be
or dictate how long
I should avoid growing weary.
Until there is not much left of your ghost
To be found, though there will always
be more than enough
to be remembered.
You said some love we just don’t deserve.
I believe you.
I will always believe you.
But how long are we to endure,
how long are we to risk all that we have
for the kind of love
that doesnt deserve us?

You wont find me
When the day breaks apart into pieces and
When the sea turned to the darkest of the blue
You wont find me
Not in places that I used to be
Not in places I am meant to be
But I think you will remember me
Or recognize me from the void
Or realize that there is not much of me left to be found but there is enough of me to be remembered
But know, that I will remember you
I will keep you alive in the tiny universe inside me
I will reminisce about your every single detail like a promise
I will always remember you
When I am sitting in that rocking chair overlooking the life I have lived,
I will remember you,
Like the first time I felt my heart beating
Like the last time I spoke the truth to someone
I will remember you
Like my first and last kiss
I will remember you
Like my first heartbreak

Unwittingly,
we all just wanted to be loved.
From our births
to the moment we become one of the antiques,
one thing will remain amidst our constantly changing nature- and that is our want to love and to be loved in return.
It may have been the fault of the romantics for engraving the idea of love into the air,
or it maybe an inherent bone of our very nature, or perhaps an idea bestowed from the womb of our mothers.
Some have forgotten, or at least claim to have forgotten, love.
Little do they know that it exists right at the core of our reason and sometimes it thrives within our passions and dreams.
Some have the ability to see it with their naked eyes.
Some claim it lives through the warmth of another person.
Some believe it sits on the grave of another. Some use it as their shadow and yes, recognize it as demons too.
It’s everywhere, for sure.
But most, if not all, still crave for it.
Most claimed to have been failed by it.
There seem to be an overwhelming absence of love in the very universe that made it.

Why is that so?

Seldom will you ever find a friend who will sit with you in your silence, one who may or may not understand but still- he or she, will sit with you in your silence.

As if the world has sum itself up into a second of a minute where all being has forgotten what it means to speak; as if all that every one knows is to listen

To the silence.

As if words have set themselves free of all of us human beings; that we have become strangers to them- words.

Silence.

Seldom will you ever find silence as you sit with a friend. Seldom may a friend understand.

But too often, silence who is a stranger to the words, listens. And my God, how it understands.

I look at the dark sky,
tonight,
convinced,
I think,
that the stars
are gazing
right back
at me.

She gets her alcohol
and gulps it in,
as if
that's how
you teach
a wound
to heal.

Our story,
this story-
will take time.
Like reading a book
from chapter one,
it'll take time.
And I am
not a fan of waiting-

but God,
I will let it.

Some days,
I wish I could ride away
And be one of those
Strange disappearances.
What a vivid of a “some days”
This night is.

You
are
my
only
understanding
of
the
world.

You are the feast
in all of my verses.
Seen in every letter.
Bold in every word.
You reign worlds
between my ink and paper,
and a galaxy on my typewriter-
But all these, you'll never know-
not a breath from me,
not a scrap of my soul.

Have you already felt
the absence of light-
Without blinking,
Without closing
your eyes?

I see that your side of our closet
has gone blank.
And I,
I do not know
what to do with these walls
full of our photographs.

There is no distance
like the space that there is
between me and
this old photograph
resting on the
the most immediate side
of my bed.

Is it the tide of people on the narrow pavement
the subtle stir of air, the strange claim of gravity,
Or some anonymous density resting atop the lights?
If not, tell me-
To whom do I owe your soul this night?

I remember
one of those nights,
right before you rang
at my door,
when I used to call
writing
a chore.

I bought an expensive bind of pages to write my thoughts in.
But the words prefer to fit at the back of my hand,
at the margins of my books,
at the most random places
and hideous cases
- all characters prefer
to rest atop all ironic spaces
- each word calling every piece of missing touch,
each word wanting to compensate
for the oozing weight of not having much.

And you are the only kind of stranger
to ever surpass a friend,
but one to lurk far,
so far,
behind a lover.

Tonight
I write again,
for the first time.
Because the second
does not exist.
How can one be so bland
to resist a thousand firsts?

I remained
a bud,
a pup,
a mere silhouette
of the imaginary.
I limit
the heights
that can be
conquered by my grasp.
Oh,
how I stopped growing
to stay
in love.