She must have come here in the pouring rain.
In the form of the pouring rain.
Falling down the roof.

Down you hair, if you’re outside. Down your temple, your face. Kissing your skin.

Reaching my skin, draped over my body like a warm blanket…
A wonderful thought.

You may not be aware of that single drop,
but she did kiss your skin before she fell down the pavement.

Like promises on your favourite park bench.

How does the sound of the guitar strums,
travelling down your headphone chord
from the other end of the world
sounds like?

While, at almost four in the morning,
you pressed your back on the wall
constructed on the other end
of this big, wide world.

I packed my bag
and stuffed some clothes
good for a week or two.

A camera for photos,
A book for company.

And pieces of hungry parchments pressed between the leaves
all screaming your name
demanding your scent
and making me restless.

You must be the sound of the train wheels
scraping against the railings
before it ceases.

"We haven't written anything yet," she exhaled.

The afternoon sun glistened on the panes, but there was a slight overcast on the far-end of the horizon. A thin streak of gray, like an ink spilled on a bowl of water.

For a moment she continued to converse with the ceiling, her eyes fixed against the whispers of the roof. She closed her fist but her thoughts kept running out of her grip. It was a state of sheer clarity. She can vividly see the minutes suspended in midair, their faces anxious, afraid, uncertain and with each flinch of the hand of the clock, she had captured the details of how each of them fell, one by one, on the pavement, their flesh asunder and perishing slowly.

"The table pressed against the wall looks defeated in the darkness of this dungeon," she cursed, more to herself than to the atmosphere as her feet traversed the labyrinth of their discarded clothes, crossed the room, drew the chair and scattered her verses.

I will pull your hair
and pull you close
and let every atom of my flesh
fell madly and irrevocably in love with you.

I would very much like to tell you
How my last night went through.

It was raining, that time.
Distant ramblings of thunder
And constant slice of lighting
One could almost capture
And preserve in a bottle.

I would have, if it’s possible.
And would have handed down to you wrapped in a cloth and guitar strings.
To remind you that whatever might happen in the morning
We have lived everything we could.
This night, tonight.

From the coffee shop’s window,
I watched all these unfold
As the raindrops dripped and draped
And my hands scribbled your name
Barely readable on the tissue.
But it was still your name, nonetheless.

So that’s what I did,
While waiting for the rain to cease:
Stared past the window
And thought entirely of you.

If words can make you immaculate
Then I will not speak for a thousand years.
Until I have captured enough of them
To stitch and wrap round your neck
Dangle down your chest.

It will be the colour of the sky, that thread
A pendant molded from the solitude of the clouds at night.
Drifting and swirling and wavering then bursting
Countless incoherent constellations.
They will be scattered on your hair and shoulder,
those stars.

When people fall in love,
They write poetries.
Perhaps,
a little like this.