destruction is
a form of creation

your restless body
carried all the burden
that perplexed souls left you,
shackled with disdain
all alone.

the reverberating sounds
of gaiety tugged around
the edges of your
curled lips
but you still wear
heartbreak and misery
as your identity.

your autobiography
consisted of polaroids
of people who
left you jaded.

yet you let the feeling of love
cascade down your throat
even if it left you
still gasping for breath.

you were
peter pan.

and i was
‎wendy.

you were always seeking
for the intricacies of
compunctious realities,

that you considered
the one standing before you
as a vestige of existence.

and when i finally let you go,
you still searched for
the great mishaps.

afterall,
you were
peter pan.

and i am merely
a surfeit of mirrors
that reminded you
to grow up.

i do not wear
heartbreak well.

i dress it
in plaid skirts
and loose shirts
under
cheap make-up.

i keep it
hidden in between
the pages
of a horror story
that you showed
abhorrence for.

i write it
in forms of sonnets
that overcome the
acrimonious ways
your words found themselves
tangled with mine.

i say it
in jumbled thoughts
and incoherent murmurs
that clouds memories
of warmth and sunlight.

forsooth,
heartbreak
does not suit me.

the universe has a daft manner
of reminding me of
you.

your voice resembles the breeze
that blows during the ungodly hours
and i realize that
the mists and fogs
just want to deceive us with
empty promises
and fulfilling lies.

your eyes spoke of the way
the moon danced with the stars,
a secret affair with the sun.
they take in every detail;
from the freckles
that adorned my face
to the scars
that still crept into my heart.

your hands clasped onto the meteors
but you were too unforgiving
and the galaxies sent you away from me
to scatter along the heavenly bodies
and await for rebirth.

maybe this is
all just a film.

an indie film
starring troubled teenage girls
finding out who they truly are;

a horror film
starring an ex-convict
being haunted by
his petrifying past;

a romance film
with cringy punchlines,
sly glances in the hallways,
passing notes during sessions,
a wink or a two.

this,
what we had,
was no more than
a documentary.

the brusque strokes of color
writing the art of detaching one's heart
in a single streak,
overwritten by harsh
and rash decisions,
regret bursting
through the air,
the feeling of being torn apart
by the swaying wind,
whispering,

the curtains
finally closed.

i am
a confusing person.

i may
love things
that i hate;

i may
hate things
that i love.

sometimes
i adore the sun setting
and i close my eyes
as the sun drapes itself
with dust and memories.

then
i despise the way
the sun rises
with false anticipation
for children chasing them,
desiring to touch
even a glint of gold
and sunlight.

but i try not to love
the way your crooked smile
makes everything look
endearing.

because
i am afraid
that i will soon learn
to hate it.