If love fails you, don’t hate it. Instead,  thank it for giving you laughs, tears, goodnight texts, and dates on Saturdays

- when you were supposed to be alone in your kitchen, chopping an ugly potato that looks lonelier than you could have been

If you want me
to do the dishes,
you need to leave
your heart
beside the sink.

I want to believe that
to love is a choice.
For when I glanced at you
for the first time,
I had all the chance
to look away.
But
I chose to look
a second longer
and there my world
has alienated
every single concept
that I knew about choice.

It's true
that I hate you
every time
you do not call
but what
I hate more
is the idea
of forgetting,
and the relief of
moving on.

Do not ask me
why I am hurting.
Do not ask me
questions that are
answerable by
your very existence.

I'll give you
something else
to toy with,
so you can leave
my heart
alone.

They say that
true love is
to give without
asking for anything
in return.
So perhaps,
that's the reason why,
I love you
even though
you love her
And why
you allow me
to foolishly do so,
every day.

And sometimes
Giving up is as simple as
Pressing the red button
Of your ringing phone

And if in the end
he happens
to break your heart
thank him
for giving you
something
to write about.

And then I write the letters,
kindly,
on a glossy paper
using the tip
of a good old highlighter.
But the aim will taste
only what’s vain
- that I know.
Because the aim is
to leave
a permanent mark.

Until now,
I have been
repeating
in my head,
like an
old mantra,
how
I just cant lose you.

It finally occurred to me
that some spaces
have the ability
to be mean
- brutal, even.
Like the spaces
resting
between our lips.
Like the spaces
occupied
by oceans
and countries
and pure **** air
that limit us
from fitting
our hands
together.

When the moon stares on earth like this,
when the vastness of the sky fondles
too well on my loneliness,
when the horizon limits me
with only you to wonder about,
I wish I'could hear your voice
even from an unfathomable distance
even just in a kiss of a minute
- perhaps to see if you're doing well,
Even though I need no further clue
that you’re doing great without me.
And my wanting to hear your voice,
is more of me
not doing well without you.

There are two types of sadness:
one, is being sad that
you write so much,
you draw so much,
you drink so much,
you sleep too much-
the other is just
a little taste of death
on the most inconvenient hour of your life,
when you lost the understanding
of the difference between
jumping on a cliff
and falling on a cliff.

There is something with the way he looks at me.
It’s like he’s saying-

"Hey, you have dirt on your face.
Your lipstick is awkwardly traced on your lips.
Your dress highlights the layers on your tummy.
And it is no question that your hair is not having the time of its life.
But I wont judge you for those.
I wont judge you for the mess that you are and for the messier that you’ll be.
So yes, I’m hoping that you can also fall in love with me."

I hope
you remember yourself
well-enough tonight.
Because we all know
how fireworks are proud,
and loud and glittery
while sadness is illuminating
at its own sky,
somewhere in the
year-long night
living inside you.

We were younger than our feelings.
We were far behind the perfect time.
We were searching for that hour
between midnight and the next minute,
only to know that there is no such thing
- not even a lie.
They said
"True love waits"
-but they didn't tell us
what will happen
after all the waiting.

Don’t you ever make claims that you’ve moved on,
when the scribbles on your notebook will prove otherwise.
Don’t you ever assume that you have forgotten,
when a phone number you should have gotten rid of,
will prove you ridiculous.

Some days I am sure you make the sky a little bluer.
Some days I know you are part of the rain.
Some days I am convinced that if the sun will shine a little bit more, I will feel your warmth all over my bones.
Some days I believe you have become yet another color to complete the broken pieces of my rainbow.
Some days I live to see you become the missing depth of the sea. Even though our feet no longer walk on the same earth and even our eyes do not look at the same skies, you will remain here, with me, along with everything I know that is true, along with everything this world has learned about you.
This time, I would gladly keep my heart broken if it is the only way to keep a piece of it, with you, there in the heavens.

With you standing at the edge of the cliff,
leaning over as if you'd fall
is how I have absolutely everything
at risk.

What are you going to do —
now that I stare at you,
listening into the silence, howling
the absence of noise?
What are you going to do —
now that my heart and all the ounce
of reason that embraces it, drops
into the cold tile floor?
What are you going to do —
now when the distance that separates
my feet to your feet is a
giant stretch of air, and people,
and books and rubble and
impossibility
and dying chances?

I wonder if I tilt my head a bit on the side,
so my jaw would be angled just right,
so my nose would be touched nicely by shadows,
so my eyes would spark to lure the light-
I wonder if I walk a few steps towards, perhaps a few steps back-
I wonder if some type of arm stretch, or head rest-
will make you ask for my number.
And you- a fine sculpt of a man
do not need to do any but breathe then,
to have it.

You made me hope
for something
that only exists
on the pages of a book.

She fantasizes of falling stars
breaking the bleakness of the night.
And as she closes her eyes,
she opens her heart- she then whispers
through the echoing space-

‘Lead him back to me.'

-ever so quietly, ever so longingly.

I will tell you about sadness
that is the scrap of flesh on the very tip of my toes
to the highest point of my skull.
I can tell you what about sadness-
when I lay my head back for a fortnight-
missing meals, missing knocks on my doors,
missing one’s absence inside my head,
and surviving- surviving still.
But when I write about sadness,
I shall write about you.
For sadness is also about
stories that were
never given a chance to start.

If you ever find yourself slouched on the world’s perfect riddance
If, somehow, all the air that’s stayed with you are smokes of cigarettes
If you know that you have fallen into the hands of hell, blazing with fire,
Flickering like live wire,
Seek further down the path-
Intrude further down the core-
For there is no question,
How diamonds find derision, isolation and hell
As places to score a flawless sleep.

I want
to be the one
you're afraid
to lose.

But you lost me
way before
you became
afraid.

When this world has deprived you
Land beneath your feet,
Air for you to breathe,
Hope to grant you sleep,
I will be here.
And I will write
Of you,
For you,
To you-
I will write a world
through and through.
No matter how all edges
has pinned my arms
on the tamest grounds,
still I will write
of one true wild.
I will write a world made
For you, especially for you-
To survive.

I realized that
the loneliest hearts
are not found
within abandoned
rooms or between
furrowed sheets.
They’re not in bars
where bitter gulps
can wash away the
saltiest tears.
They’re nowhere near
the darkest hallway
or the blurriest
of all the paths.
But the loneliest hearts
are found
squeezed underneath
the loudest laughs.

One day,
I realized that the night is dark
-pitch black amidst the stars
I realized that the sun appears by the horizon
-but it drops there too and never really stays
I realized that the beach has millions of galactic sand,
Like constellations formed on the bareness of earth
-and still, not a grain wants to be grasped by my cold touch
I realized that the ocean is blue, so blue, and too blue
-wild with its waves, but truthfully sad too.
One day,
I woke up realizing all these things,
And I realized the same about you.

Souls do not weigh much.
Not at all-
that they can outdo the lightness of a feather
and even the barest of all wrecked hearts.
Souls- too delicate,
that they stray upon vibration of the thinnest air.
You see, I have a soul.
It will take me.
And I will let it.
And as for you,
who is a soul wrapped within a soul-
if the air takes you,
then I shall let you go.

Busy people rarely ever feel sad. Why? Because sadness requires a certain depth of epiphany, a subtle but constant blow in the gut. You can never find sadness lurking in the corners of a busy office or in a library full of curious young minds.

Sadness, I think, is when the world has momentarily left its orbit to embark on a dim lit path. It is there when the day is over and the lights are out and you are left sitting in the dark feeling every bit of human. It is when you'd rather stay in for the rest of the night- and day, as well -because frankly, you have forgotten the difference.

When will you understand
the concept of my being here?
That I am here,
ready to interpret
your random glances
into dying for help.
That I am here
if you need someone
to lace up your shoes,
to dry away your tear-laden tissues,
and to save you from all the rules.
I am here. Notice me.
Walk upon the shelf
where I sit nearby and see me.
See that I am here
–looking past the people, promise,
and warmth just to snuggle my sight
unto its righteous home- that is you.

Still I ask, when will you understand
the concept of my being here?

In the stillness of a photograph,
I found life, moving in light speed,
Shooting the very nerve that bears
Every bit of sense that there is in me.
It has always been
the pigments of your photograph,
That touches the sky before the sun,
The shore before the sea,
The pages before the words,
And my heart before me.

Just say that you love me '
if you do.
And tell me
if you don't.
Because
all these
running in circles
are breaking me
in cycles.

I won’t turn off the lights for you.
Because that is what your eyelids
Are for.
Some darkness in this world
Are made from the layers we put
Before our sight
Whenever we close our eyes.

I stand here too still
Like a tree in a meadow
Though trees are alive

I look at you as if
I am looking at a photograph,
knowing exactly what place
and season it was taken.
I look at you as if
I know exactly which parts
of your face get to be touched
by the light.
I look at you as if
my old capture of your smile
hanging bloodless
on my wall
is not the only role
you'll ever play in my life.