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

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.

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-

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 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

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

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