I went home last night.
Bought some *****,
and brought another man
I met in the pub.

He was so unlike you,
you who opened all doors.
He was scrubby
and rather rude.

We lit the cigar,
inhaled the smoke,
exchanged lies,
got high.

As expected,
we had ***.
That kissing
and fondling

and all those things
I need not elaborate
for the exhausted bedsheet,
and propped pillows

And crippled blankets
all looked at me,
accusingly,
asking where you were.

Dearest.

Forgive me.
I have spilt my coffee
on your working table.

But Mrs. Crestfold was back.
She entered the door
wrapped in harlequin clothes,

danced,
then walked straight to where I sat
whilst I was writing the manuscript for the opera.

From her pocket,
I saw her withdrew
a bowl containing

a freshly cut heart,
buried in ruby
and bricks.

She said it was yours.

I never fix my room, no, never. On every corner, my books perch, stacks after stacks, like hungry butterflies destined to inhale the delight of only three summer days.

On the chair sleep those clothes I was wearing yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and last Monday and weeks ago, like fallen unremembered friends. It still has the scent of the woman sitting next to me on the bus, beside the window, her fleeting heart and endless readings and the way love flipped between her forefinger and thumb. That was the type of love that not the world could interrupt; not even the hundred years of common existence could contain.

It still has the sound of our broken steps on the pavement, the feel of the scraping wall, the drunken scent of the stranger I ****** with. His skin against my skin, his mouth staining the length of my neck, his hair wrapping my fingers, my breath on his temple, his leg, my leg, his arm, my arm, the stars dancing and our warmth defying the curse of human mortality.

Scattered on the floor were the paintbrushes, unwashed palette, stacks of newspapers I use to cover around my interminable uncertainty. I hear the wall, almost every day, discussing about my inferiority complex, about how it impedes me from creating something original, something infinite, about how it trails behind me, gasping, grabs me from behind, locks me in then eventually enslaves me.

How dare they are to go about the spectrum of these endless wanderings, these filthy fellows who knew so well that I never comb my hair and that I have always, always, hated the boring Murakami.

I never fix my bed, no, never. The propped of my pillow, the uneven creases, they will serve as the living reminder of our final encounter. I must have disarrayed the bed sheet – I cannot remember exactly when –but I have no plan of rearranging the constellations any moment soon.

My blanket swallows me alive, its edges draping on the edge of my bed, sometimes flipping reluctantly, savoring the vacancy of the afternoon, the way the light scars my books, glistens my skin that I have strewn everywhere for the mother of otherness to eat.

Most of the time, in my sheer insanity, I set my room afire.

No.
You don’t understand.
Life shouldn’t be this hard.
You shouldn’t be grateful
Making money for someone
Invisible, sitting prettily
Dropping demands and hesitations
That he might have given
An amount
Larger than your percentage
To the over all total
Which essentially you,
Your sweat and backache,
Had generated.

And they call this opportunity,
This mindless obedience?
And they call this career,
This fundamental slavery?

**** them.

First, pull the edges
make sure it meets the corner
in a form of triangle
in the shape of the society.

Then on one end,
steal those diamonds
from the chained lives
of women and children in Africa.

You'll have two seperate pillars
Like that of Athens and Sparta
always in fighting, in useless war
disregarding the bind of Greece totally.

Fold it again, and again,
and the head, and the tail,
Yes, the tail, it must be slanted
Pull it, pull it, the wings

Mend it so it would fly.
Because no matter how beautiful your cage is
A bird is meant to taste
only the sky.

"I don't want this to end," he whispered.
"It will end," I exhaled.

Inevitably.

You will remember me reciting poetry between our acts of making love. You will remember the traces of my fingerprints trembling on your temple, my mouth cloistered across your name. You will hear, again and again, my rapid breathing round your neck and my battered voice consuming the space between you and me.

The long walks, my verses, the place I used to occupy, your hair strands perishing on my palm and my disappearing warmth, they will forever remind you of the endless times and everything we are breathing somewhere underneath your propped pillow and creased blanket.

Between your fingers will wrap the ways you have read me like Braille and the countless ways I have responded fluently. They will live in your head, feed in your memory, tear your flesh asunder. They will annihilate you.

They will break your heart.

Say goodbye to Keats, Gaiman, Bukowski, Eliot, Woolf, Plath and to the thousand years I could have made you immortal and love you like sickness and its cure together. Say goodbye to the smell of the verses I have exhaled on your skin, in a locked room, to our glittering kisses and shards of hearts strewn and dying on your bed sheet. I will take the next station Southbound, with Hemingway, and will dissolve with the clouds and swallow the stars alive.

Say goodbye to me and go on with your ******* ***** and endure the fact that she will never ever write a poem for you because she can’t and you have lost me forever.

*Remember that your muffled hair,
In this broken world,
Is one of the most beautiful things I have ever beheld
But be wary of my books.
There were constellations between the pages
Which tomorrow,
I will tear apart, one by one
And stitch in the shape of legendary airplanes that one day,
As we stand face to face
I will crush on your chest
And they will explode
And dismember you.