Nostalgia--
Homesick and lovesick,
But neither homeless nor loveless.

Love has some wonderful properties.

It makes you something you're not. It makes you sane and insane. It makes you humane and inhumane. It makes you sighted and blind. It makes you overly rational or illogical. It makes you somewhat childish when nothing matters. It makes you extra jealous when there's nothing.

It makes you do things you don't do. It makes you prosecute and judge your defendant, or it makes you defend your lover. Perhaps the other way around. It makes you commit ******. It makes you commit suicide. It offers you identity crisis to a certain extent, but also enough motivation, will, and power to ****, just a little, somehow.

Who am I? Who am I, now? Who was I? And, who are you? Whose side are you on?

On that note, all it would take is but a feeble breeze to knock me off the edge so that I fall into endless tar. I shall sink, effortlessly, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, as the thick, obscure liquid engulfs and swallows my entire being, slowly and gently, until I'm out of breath, and perfectly erased from this world without a trace of ever having lived.

I was happy
Before she intruded.
She was probably happy
Before I intruded.

I hoped
They wouldn't commit ******.
She probably hopes
We wouldn't commit to a relationship.

I wished
To separate them.
She probably wishes
To separate us.

I wanted her
Out of the picture.
She probably wants me
Out of the picture.

Then, would all
Return to normal
If she left?
No, all would probably
Return to normal
If I left.

Conversation.
That's how it starts,
Doesn't it, a relationship,
And that's why it ends,
When there is none.

I'm letting the past rest in peace.
I won't try to repair it anymore.

That which has been broken
Can never be perfectly flawless
Ever again anyway.

He was simply a visitor who
Came through the door of my life,
Peeked into the room of my heart,
And then abandoned both.

A part of me only hopes that,
Although now complete strangers,
He will remember the shelter
He once considered home.

On New Year’s Eve, 2015,
I cheerily wrote you,
From the other side of the world:

“’Tomorrow is –
The first blank page
Of a 365-page book.’
Let’s make it meaningful!”

On New Year’s Eve, 2016,
I wholeheartedly write you,
From the same state:

“Thank you for joining –
The same cast,
In the same reality,
On the same paper;

Thank you for living –
The same words,
On the same page,
In the same chapter;

Thank you for wanting –
The same things,
With the same pace,
In the same manner;

Thank you for sharing –
The same story,
With the same close,
In the same series.”

The river flows one way;
Once you're across the Styx,
You cannot turn around.

Up ahead, death awaits.
Behind, life aggrieves.
Yet, all but one choice exists.

Despite the past, move forward,
However dark the path is.
Leave what was to what will be.