On the pavement littered with cigarette butts and desolate corks. The street lights flicked on and off as I traversed the path that leads me back to you.

The soles of my shoes cratered the lane as I trod along the alleyway  that knows your name so well; on the bench nest disappointment and question, discussing what had happened; arguing what could have been. Around my legs hovers the hollow of my footfalls, trailing the breaths we have exhaled, the sweats we have perspired.

Perching on my hair were the shards of our glittering kisses. Faintly they flick, on and off, to the touch of the moon every time the light passed  through the bar, or whenever the bar passed through me. Its silver glow sleeps and snores.

Empty alcohol bottles standing beside the bin reminds me of the hours we have exhausted, your jeans and our dreams stretched between you and me. I can vividly remember the sound of our uneven gasps fluttering around like restless butterflies. Sometimes, it perched on the wall, on the curtain, on the window.

Sometimes, on your hair. Sometimes, on mine. And sometimes on my hand flat on the door while the other fumbles for the key as the entrance slowly widen and summer steals me away from the world outside.

I tossed my shoes, balled up on the couch, dissolved among the creases on the blanket, consumed your smell then closed my eyes.

This dawn , I shall be meeting you.

If I dissolve these words
among these clouds
drifting above me,

will it take the form
enough to tame the stars
so I could pick some

to be stitched
and wrapped round your neck?

In the end,
you will be measured
not by the titles
stitched after your name

nor by the degree you have attained
or the clothes you wear
the brand it has
or the wage you earn.

You will be looked upon
measured, honoured
and remembered
by living humane

And being human.

To begin with and probably my greatest contention, I want my time and not their wage. That money is just a piece of paper that will undoubtedly aflame when put under the scorching heat. It is my skin that I want to burn. I want to see it red, feel the biting sting of the sunrays. The scars will serve as proof of my existence - that I have lived my life, and I have lived it well.

2. I do not understand the logic of mindless submission in exchange of titles or promotions or empty regards. More important are my fellow human being, and corporate world demands lots of trampling and oppression from the people executed to the people. Mindless submission could lead to ******. I prefer humanity than any corporate position and greed.

3. Why should I confine myself in the office if I could have the whole world? Life is out there. And it has to be conquered.

4. Borrowing the words of John Keats, I want to fill my days with more delight than fifty, or even thousand years of common existence could ever contain.

I would contain it in a bottle
with dead leaves
to remind you
that some time in the past

we're breathing,
inhaling each other's gasps.
That before withering,
we have lived everything we could.

Twigs scraped your bare feet
as you crossed the forest
swarming in bleeding leaves and old scars
in full haste and restlessness.

The scratches on your elbow,
did you get them when you slid
the veins aside and forced your way
out of my mind,

to peer out my eyes?

Dude! It ***** to be you. The ******* love of your life, you see, is prettily living her ******* life in a ******* kingdom by the ******* sea - with a man she just met in the gymn last Saturday - while you, you have your ******* left hand flat on your ******* parchment as you bury your head on the edge of the ******* otherness and curl your right into a ******* fist containing various worlds and stretches of forever.

Apart from curses, I have no other vices. My life is incredibly dull, you see? You have put me here atop your ******* tower overlooking the ******* ocean on my ******* own and then ******* killed me eventually.

How dare you composed a masterpiece out of my death you ******* *******!


*Your ******* Annabelle Lee,
to loved and be loved by me