What now?
- now that
we have grown
smarter,
wiser,
and
irrevocably
out
of each other?

I've been through a couple
of motorcycle accidents-
breaking my ankles,
bruising my rib,
putting my flesh into
giant assaults of hurting.

I've been pinned down
by horrendous silver needles
on cheap hospital beds
for times I have lost count on.

All of these and more,
were like nightmares
and they still are.
All of these and more,
were sickening phases of agony
I don't even want to remember.

But,
on how is it that each of those ache
resembles the echoes of your Goodbye?
I don't know.
I wish not to know.

I have never been sick enough to die,
before you.
I have never been in an accident
more disastrous,
than you are.

If you ever wonder
how deeply
I feel for you-
Know that
I am shaken enough
by the depth
of whatever doom
I have fallen to-
with bruises clinging to me
as tattoos-
with hurt breaking me
like bones-

There is no such thing
as a bad writer,
just one who isn't sad
- not sad enough.

I see
the saddest colors
in your eyes
and
I hope
you wont see
the death
in mine.

There’s a half-empty cup on her nightstand,  
random sweaters piled behind her door,
endless stacks of books on her dressers,
crumpled pieces all over her floor -


She’s all too messy for one soul.

You’re not even a disease.
But ****,
did you **** me well.

Why
do you
always
make
misery
my
normal?

Hand me over the wine - the strongest kind.
And I’ll show you how the happiest creature lives
until the dawn locks
and the hangover comes.

Let us be the barest stones dented with life's toughest surges, resting upon great heights that we never knew existed, sleeping while breathing typhoons and hurricanes - sad but grateful, grounded but fierce, tender but dangerous.

Let us be the ones the sometimes kick for the warmth of love and sometimes kiss because we hate each other.

Let's be this and that with all the twists that make us not a great phenomenon but a precious secret.

Let's sleep under the stars whenever the sky shares them, and let's sleep under the stairs when the clouds give us rain.

Let's be different like there is no such thing as red for STOP on street lights. And ice cream is delicious only if warm.

Let sleep blanket itself
on every tangible inch
of ourselves.
And let it be
the strongest hindrance
on us ever waking up
on this neighborhood
of cheap wine, guilt-cigarettes and eternal hatred.

Listen-
How am I supposed
to word the things
that have already
been elucidated by my eyes
and that have already been yelled
by the pounding of my heart?

Uttering these feelings as words
proves nothing more than me
being
superfluous.
I refuse to be redundant.

I want our story to be written in a book.
I want us to have a chance to be remembered.
Because love like ours does not walk by the street
or ride the subway
on normal days.

Perhaps,
it’s not the cold
that you hate,
but
the absence
of the warmth
of
a certain somebody.

But we are all
meant to die.
And your heart, all of ours
  will never
live beyond us.
It will never pursue
or chase or recognize
love
without us.
And so
the kind of eternity
or forever or immortality
that
we all lust for
is meant to lose its breaths
whenever, wherever
we lose ourselves.

There are ideas
within me
that demand
to live
as words and letters,
that long
to be entwined with
the blandness of paper.
But as soon as
I grab hold of my pen
to make these true,
those ideas
leave me
just like everybody else.
They leave me
empty
just like everybody else.

I guarantee you
that
Love always stays,
to hold you
until the last of your days
or at least
in
old photographs
and
fading scents.

I can never
really complain
of being hurt
when I know
that
we both are.
Instead,
I can only ask --
"What have we done to each other?"

Some feelings
are just like echoes
-heard by nothing
but air
and returned
by nothing
but walls.