Listen.* You are not listening to me.

Do you know what I think about
when its chilly, dark and crying?
Will you hold my shivering palm in yours
and brush my fingertips?

I yearn for realities that never will be real
While you live in the opposite galaxy.
When will our dreams collide, I dream
Or will mine fall like autumn leaves.

Sometimes I wish you can see through
impenetrable pieces of my mind.
But other times I shield from you  
demons that no one should find.  

Like the planets revolving around the Sun,
my entirety is bound to you.  
Yet like the opposing Sun and moon,
You don't orbit around me, do you?

Will you love me
Not half but whole?
Will you love me
broken, though?

I'll cover my ears
when you speak;
because never, never
in my monochrome dreams,
do things flow
exactly as I think.

I am
solid li
quid and g a  s.
Do not define me
because I refuse to exist
in just one state.
I have a  
crystalline structure
with unbreakable bonds yet
I     want   to crash like   receding     waves
rapidly; through the morn
and be
like o
          xy
                 g
        en
unnoticed but longed.
Watch me as I
melt–evapora t        e–con
dense.

I love it when you type letters
with your fingertips
on my skin
backspacing my faults
and joining my freckles
letter by letter
until you’ve created a new word.
Sometimes,
you discover a new universe in the obscure abyss
and mark that with an asterisk.
In the morning,
you would press kisses
between the parenthesis of my smile
and bite ellipsis
on the crook of my neck
so that I would wake with your watermark.
I still remember that day
when you assured me
you are just a space bar away and
I am a story you will never finish writing.

"I promise,darling
that you will be filled with caesuras but no period.”

Its not the kind of tired that can be unfelt. The kind that leaves after a good night's sleep or some food therapy with your best friend. Its the kind of tired that robs away your words and leaves your tongue dry no matter how much water you drink. Its the kind of tired that seeps through bones, slowly infecting your mind like cancer; so slowly, you don’t even feel it, until one day you just wake up with this sudden thought that you can’t do it anymore. And there is nothing you can do to un-feel it. There is nothing anyone can do to help you un-feel it. And you know what’s worse? Pretending that your spine is not broken, your mind is not collapsing under its own gravity and carry on, every single ******* day.

If words can paint canvas on our skins, grow gardens in our hearts, leave star trials behind our thoughts, why are my poems not enough to return you to me?

1.26 am. I am empty.

I am the dried up ocean;
I am ashes, not stardust.
There is no supernova inside me,
Waiting to combust.

I keep chasing paragraphs
but my words - blown away by the wind.
No amount of time can resurrect them
This pen is running out of ink.

What I seek - will it come
if I think in another language?
Perhaps if I go to sleep
I can write another page.

3.57am. I am (still) empty.