“you asked me for help, to fix you, to fight against your addiction

i asked you to do things, you promised me that you’ll do them

but promises aren’t meant to last, so here i am, stuck with more excuses

i weep at the loneliest night, thinking that i’m selfish & not letting you do things you love–“

but oh child, it is not your responsibility to fix him.

it is not.

sleep may possibly be the only way
to get to know how your touch feels like.
it is quite upsetting and blissful; both at the same time,
because i often wake up at thirteen twenty three to realise
that i'd much prefer to skip lunch just to be able to let our pupils meet.

and i would be more than glad to tell you of
how our reflections dance in each other's chocolate iris,
—it made me believe that fairies do exist, for in my eyes, you'd witness how these pixie dust melt all over you
or how your warm hands felt like with our fingers intertwined
—my palms were similar to torned maps with these lines as broken paths and yours had the missing pieces, it's like these lines had a certain destination and they were meant to meet yours

but then again thirteen twenty three calls for me and i have nothing but ocean eyes and broken miles.

at two a.m., i like to listen to one of my playlists and  dance & spin to it
resulting into yet another sleepless night with drunken thoughts
it's inevitable, anyway; this is the best hour to be true with the moon
so i scribble down these wasted words and happen to find myself with the idea of you (again)
and it's terribly upsetting to know that the only thing my lips are capable of caressing is nothing but this glass of red wine

the last thing i knew, it wasn't the playlist that was making me dance like john travolta, or spin like barbie from the nutcracker— it was you

to capture the sun kissing the sea
is to feel like every trophy in this world deserves to be yours,
to capture an interior without individuals
is to perceive a beauty that's never been told.

to capture the speed of light in busy streets
is to write a thousand thoughts in a minute,
to capture the hidden words in one's countenance
is to reveal the surreptitious lines that are meant to be confessed.

but to be able to capture your heart
is to capture all these things at once.

all we have is our coats on,
yours with the colour of fresh snow—
neat and untainted; 'white' as they say
and mine completely present of
spilled paint and creases out of cloth;
hues of hope and folded dreams—
trying to reach that lab coat of yours
that's never messy as mine