i want to see you naked.

no.

not in that kind of way.

i want to see you bare. i want to see your heart. how it beats fast when we do something crazy. how it slowly thumps when you sleep and i wrap my arms around you. i want to see all the cracks — all the proof of how strong you are and how you mended each and every single time it breaks.

i want to see you naked.

yes.

in this kind of way.

if ever

you don’t

feel

like you have a home,

pull me close,

wrap your arms around me,

rest your head on my chest,

close your eyes,

and feel the warmth of the fireplace

resonating from within my heart.

it’s the silence.

           the quiet.

the stillness of the atmosphere.
the silent buzzing,
ringing sound in your ears.

           it’s              

           everything in
           nothingness
           that screams:

the whispers of your past,

the calmness of now,

the mystery of your
future.

           listen.

listen to the quiet as it scream words

your ears cannot hear,

           but your heart
           and mind could
           feel.

i stopped writing.

not because i don’t want to.

it’s because i couldn’t.

i couldn’t bear the fact that i would have to feel pain and sadness all over again to write something only a few people would understand.

i couldn’t find the exact words. the right sentence. the perfect way to say the emotion i want to show, ending up saying more than the thought itself.

i couldn’t face an empty screen with the line continuously blinking as if begging me to release the letters out of it — teasing it constantly knowing i would just stare at it and close my phone afterwards.

i couldn’t find the right moment to write. and when i thought it was, i just end up thinking about all my “i couldn’t”s never finishing anything i write.

it’s so easy to say, “just write. it’ll come to you soon enough” but little do those people know it’s as hard as it gets.

one day, i write something amazing. amazing to me at least. and the next day, you don’t write anything at all — scared to create a new one that’ll forget the existence of the previous one.

i stopped writing.

but i keep imagining.

writing on my head but never putting them into words. locking them up as safe as possible inside my head where only i could reach. only i could appreciate. only i could admire.

i keep them.

and if one day,

if i get the strength to stop saying “i couldn’t”

i know it’ll all make sense.

but for now,

i’ll have to stop writing.