Today,
I walked back and forth
and tried to shrug off those memories
words
and promises dangling on my hair
like confetti strewed on our favourite park bench.

Nice eyes, though. Lauren's.
But not striking enough.

I like bluish-gray.
I see the ocean during the storm.

Or greenish brown.
I see forest and moss,
or sea weeds.

But with hers,
it's dishonesty and flourishing deception.

You can love
anyone on the planet
And anyone on the planet
can love you.

But there are varying degrees of love.

Some love are meadows.
Some are graveyards.
Most, however,
are graveyards dressed as meadows.

But in either three,
all flowers are bound to perish.

The act of betrayal hurts because it is usually committed by someone you have trusted and loved the most. And you have been betrayed, your heart gorged. I just want you to know that you have the right to be angry and hold your grudge against that person and there is nothing wrong with that. Even negative emotions make you human.

However, you have to remember that not all people, in general, are like her. Not all will treat you the way she did, or they did; not everyone will treat you badly, the way you don't deserve.

Most people are cruel, yes, but some are kind and genuine. They maybe few, but they exist. You can expect that they will regard you correctly, because they know, as a human being, you deserve that. They will show you your importance, because you are important. In case you have forgotten, they will remind you. In case you have lost it, they will help you find it again.

In times of need, expect that they will choose you over anything else. Meetings. Classes. Birthday celebrations. Whatever. You are worth more than those. They know that you deserve to be the choice and not just an option.

Do not be afraid to trust again. Fully and genuinely. Opening oneself and giving in once more isn't easy, especially in your case, but you have to try. You have to try overcoming those obstacles and letting not the past defeat you. Not everyone you'll meet will stab you at the back, the way she did.

There are people who can and will show you your importance. They may be few, but they exist. I hope you find them. And I hope you find your fulfillment as a human being and the core of your existence. I hope you can say in the end, not matter how ugly and cruel the world is, that life's worth it.

I hope all these for you.
Sincerely.

It's weird
how most people
looked at love

as a field of peaches
during the harvest time

and not as two palm trees
trying to weather the storms
of the barren land.

In this bedroom
with clattered papers
and dusty bags
and unwashed clothes and endless dreams

glittering and fading under the solitary light.

Truth is, I am somewhere else
somewhere near the shore
collecting sea shells
while the wind passed through my hair

my parts being scattered everywhere.

Maybe this is just a dream
this towel hanging lifeless on the headboard
the half-opened closet mouth gaping at me
the walls asking where I have been

the water bottle demanding a refill.

Maybe the truth is I am somewhere else
Somewhere, where sadness is far away.
Maybe I am sitting on a bench or inside my head
or in some star at 3 o'clock in the morning

*Waiting for your arrival.

Find him commenting in some poetry site. He is the one who has an avatar taken some 8 years ago. He usually floods people's notification with likes, sometimes comments, encouraging them to pen more and appreciating how talented they are.

In his page you will see old poems which record the details of his life. The happiness, the pain and the longing, the failures and the regrets, the endless hope and the secret dreams.

Layer by layer, he will take you in the various avenues of his past while constructing the future he imagined will exclusively be for the two of you. Certainly, it's not the tomorrow of the moon and sun and stars, shining and splendid, but it's not the tomorrow of ******* either. Because the guy who writes has the courage to face the truth and defend it no matter what.

Date a guy who writes. Sometimes, you will find yourself arguing with him about drugs, and you will find him comparing weeds with make-ups or coffee in some car accidents. You will find him absurd. You will call him stupid. He will call you a dunce. He will walk out. But when all is said and done and frustrations had subside, you will see him retracing his steps and staggering back to you. Yes, that's my man.

Be with the guy who writes. He's the type of person who remembers the details of you and never forgets. He even knows what your breathing sounds when you sleep, the sharpness of your every inhale and the gravity of your every exhale. And he could write about it. In sheer metaphor.

He gets paranoid sometimes, the guy who writes. There are moments in your life, nights like this, when all the worlds are asleep including the moon, when an idea must be coined and placed on the palm of your hand and handed to him as soon as possible, lest it would disappear.

In this kind of situation, do not ever give a hint until the surprise has been wrapped. Because he will press you to talk about it, insist his desire of knowing what it is about, accuse you of being difficult then claim that you are merely trying to annoy him. He can be obnoxious and suspicious but when everyone sees you broken, beyond questions he will find you beautiful.

Date a guy who writes because he has the will to stay and the strength to maintain his loyalty -- through the ups and downs of life he will never give you up. To him you are more than every poetry that has ever written in human history. To him you are greater than literature and far larger than biography.

To him, you are more than the stretch of the ocean to nowhere and the bend of the river in the mountain. To him, you are more relevant than the reality of everything and at night, before he sleeps, he will look at you and you will see in his eyes the infinity of forever in various forms.

That sometimes
words are not enough.

Most of the time, actually.

Because people need reassurance, always.
And not just the ordinary kind
of reassurance.

It must be the kind that is certain,
that is constant
that never falters.

The kind that is strong enough to weather life's series
of resonant, unending storms.

It should be the kind
that people can hold on to, always.
Most especially in moments
when every bone inside them begins to shatter.

Nick, I am a bit drowsy.
But hey, listen.

When that day comes
your hair finally gone,
or the remaining strands turned grey
or white and wiry,

when that day comes,
I want you to know
that I will still love you.

Always remember that.

December arrived
and knocked on the door.
And I slumped on the chair
and stared at the ****.

I found you.

You were in every word.
You occupied the spaces,
its continuum
and truthfulness.

You will see cobwebs and spiders
covering round the clavicles,
traversing down the cartilage.

Close your eyes and listen intently
And you will hear the sound of the leaves
being carried around and away
in that valley of questions and shadows.

Sometimes you will see broken twigs.
Everything is broken inside,
so rest assured that you can never break some more.
Someone, before your arrival,
has already did the favour for you.

All you can do now is lean over my chest
and close your eyes
and listen to the distant sound of the wind
and leaves being blown around

inside this rib cage.

You said
you are interested in films.
And I happen to know
a certain director.

I introduced him to you
hoping to make you happy.
But to my surprise,
your interest shifted.

Not long after
you ran away with the director.
And left me,
under the tree,

waiting for you,
with flowers trembling in my hands.

You know,
The only thing I want for my birthday is you.
Just you.

The rest of the entire world can fall away.

Hey
What are you thinking?
'bout me?
You said you're thinking 'bout me.*

That you are incredible
and how much I adore who you are.
That you do not compromise who you are by what you think I want to hear.
That you just are you,
that you made this easy and intimate
me showing you those photos.
That I want to make love to you
and kiss you a whole lot.
That I hope I make you feel as comfortable as you made me feel.
That I hope you love me more
and will continue to love me
for a very long time.
That I am getting tired
and I wish two things could happen:
you be here to keep me awake
and you be here to wake up to,
after we fall into slumber.

I think a lot.

And these complements
I wonder if you have already said
the same thing before.

I wonder who those people were.
I wonder how many times you have given them.
I wonder if they believed you.
I wonder how they have responded.
And I wonder how you have reacted.

I wonder what could have been.

You said
how those words have traveled
from person
to person
to person
is no longer relevant

as they pertain to me now
and to us.

But I think it is important,
the history and composition of those words.
The old names attached to them,
and the old songs
and the old memories
of the person long gone.

And how they have been passed,
received,
given away,
taken back,
and given again.

Most of the time,
these thoughts keep me awake at night.

These are the kinds of names
that cannot be recycled.
And once given,
these are the names that cannot be taken back,
thus cannot be handed down to someone else again,
especially in its battered form.

Because unlike all the other names,
in these old names reside
the existence and haunting memory
of a person long gone.

I,
am the woman from your future

And you,
are the man from my past.

Aren't we,
*ironically magical?

So I went back in time.
And there you were,
near the porch
waiting for me.

A hand of yours apprehensive
under your chin.

Your heart was bruised, ****** and broken
before my arrival.
You stood up, I half-expected you to run
but the void in your chest seems to be keeping you
at bay.

And the pieces strewn round your feet
glittered in the heat of that Thursday afternoon.

From my pocket I withdrew
a scotch tape I have been carrying since the last time.
And on my knees
I picked up the pieces of your heart

and un-broke them, one by one
like we never left each other at all.
Then we entered the house
and we were happy.

We were so happy.

And days rolled back,
and we went out for the first time
like a romantic date, but not exactly.
I was shy.

And then, one day,
I woke up and I don't know you.
And you woke up and you don't know me.
And we have never met.

Not at all.

So if our story were written backward,
certainly, this is what I'll read.

How about him,
on the other end of the world
while I,
on the other side of the world

lay on my back.
The sound of the rain crushing the roof
blending with the music he plays
which traverses in my headset.

Tear down the last gods
disregard their pleas.
We will take their posts
move close to me.

My beautiful,
smart,
funny,
excitingly adventurous,
**** **** **** girl friend.

One who writes
and reads me poetry.
Sings songs,
laughs and watches movies with me.

You are so incredible to me in so many ways.
And you do it
from the other side of the world.

I do not do well without you for a whole day...
I think of you all the time.
Wishing you were here with me...
So I can lean over
and whisper how beautiful I think you are...
Then steal a kiss...

Just a gentle brush of my lips
upon the canvas of your neck and mouth.

How's the day so far?

Busy.
Busy.

Apparently, yes.

But....
BUT
I am thinking of you,
and your hand in mine...

As we explore the woods. Ha.
Because I kept on asking you.
To walk with me.
This and that far.

And so we explore this woods that grows inside our head
with each passing day.

If I release you tonight,
will I feel better?

Will I see the ship I need
somewhere over there
and catch it
before the ocean
finally takes me in?

Poetry**
(n.) the luxury of having an awesome lover.

Aye aye, capt'n!

Capt'n eh?
I do look pretty stellar in boots and a pirate hat.
I could wear an eye patch,
but make it see-through,
so it would actually be sun glasses.

Why?
With sword,
and maps,
and chivalry
and oil lamps
and distant island.
God! You're enchanted.

If I fall asleep,
I will summon you to my dreams.

*Aye.
Wait for me near the train rails.
Or old shed.

I have deceived the fairies
and made a beautiful cage.

There,
in flame
and on the wreckage of the world we will dismember,

we will dance
and flaunt our hair strands.

The fireflies will sing.
The stars will fall.
All the flowers will perish.

We will eradicate the sun.
There will be no moon on summer.
We will swallow the sea.

Come closer.

Disappear with me.

The bomb has been planted was everything that he could think about that day** as he entered the door and locked it again. Its former occupants had migrated to Egypt, since then, only disappointment sleeps in the house.

Million inhabitants will die in that festival, including the elves and centaurs that came from the west. The fair was supposed to be a venue for recreation and alliance, a place where negotiations can be conducted and economic conflicts between the kingdoms can be settled.

But it has been planted and many lives will perish.

He crouched in one corner and noticed the peeling wallpaper – its edges bruised and forgotten and damped and dusty and bleeding. He folded his knees against his torn garments and enclosed his wings around himself and clasped his hands, trying to calm the trembling nebulas and screaming stars, but there is no escape from shattering.

The bomb has been planted.

She wasn’t there, in her cubicle, when I arrived.

It was empty, that part of the faculty area apart from the tables, the afternoon light passing through the window and the ravines dividing the place.** Her spot was full of dust, past dated old calendars and dreams of its former occupant who was eaten by the ocean and drowned. Well, at least the rumor claimed.

I don’t know if it’s true, but everyone knows what the former occupant did last summer. It was about two weeks before her wedding when she ran away with her student. Both of them just disappeared from the circulation one day. During the early part of their absence, the staff and classmates assumed that the reason might have been just trivial, like a mere cough or a fever.

But time and weeks dragged on and both of them were gone. Nowhere to be found. No words were left. No notice either. Nothing. They simply disappeared, just like that. Like one day, they have decided not to exist in this conventional world anymore. Like a bubble ceasing to float.

They stayed in an island, it was said. Packed their bags with clothes, flash lights, canned goods – everything they could carry at a dead run. Then they hired a boat which carried them to their destination, but no one found out the existence of the boat. There was no trace. Not even a slight.

The island was remote, detached and unoccupied. People say they built a settlement somewhere in the area, made of woods, twigs, leaves and perhaps, love. But some says they have their tent, and it was where they dreamed their elusive dreams.

But a storm broke in the dead hour of the night, shaking their sleep. All the trees and vegetation swayed to and fro, trying to catch the unfamiliar song of the wind while avoiding the occasional bouts of the lightings.

It must have been beautiful, the entire universe in sheer panic, in the middle of the night, embracing you home.

Before they knew it the tide rose and the world quivered and the waves grew massive and rolled and crashed in that part of the island and that edge.

She wasn’t there, in her cubicle, when I arrived.

Nor did the island in its former spot. It was vacated, that part of the faculty area apart from the afternoon light passing through the window which overlooks the contour of the overlapping mountains.

I placed my bag on the table, took a pen and scribbled a note saying that I’d be back some other time. She must have been in her class but I cannot be sure.

I cannot see the ocean from here.

They came again, last night – those women in black suit contrasting the sheet on my back.

One of them was holding a tray; the other was pushing a cart. All in all there were three women, one with a tray and one with a cart. The sight of the clattered metal made me shudder; the coldness crawled from my neck down to my spine. It was rusty and ****** and somber in that dimness of the endless corridor outside.

I, however, cannot tell those things inside the cart. I wouldn’t want to. No one will believe me. If I do so, they will hurl me in that room then wrap a cold, unfeeling machine round my head and fire indiscriminate gunshots. No. I will not. I cannot. They wouldn’t believe me. They will chain me, call me mad and electrify me while guaranteeing nonsense.

But it happened, really. It happened. They pushed my blanket down and my robe up, its edge touching the base of my chin. And it was very cold, and very rough, and very sharp, that metal the woman dragged on my chest, on my skin.

It was very rough.
And very cold.
And very sharp.

And she was too strong, the other woman in black. Her left hand covering my mouth I could barely breathe, her right keeping my arms at bay while she dragged the metal on my chest, creating this curve and that slice.

And my skin burned that kind of thin burning consuming not just a tree but the entire forest with all its silent secrets.

I am holding you tightly to my chest,
my beating heart.

My ears pressed against the fabric of your clothes.
(No, you don't wear any clothes when sleeping)

Sorry, I will, for you,
when you arrive.*

So, my ears then,
pressed against the warmth of your skin.
Your heart beating my name.
You humming softly,
looking out the window,
watching the poundings of the rain.

Rain.

Please, cease.
Just cease.
Cease beating the roof.
Cease falling off the leaves, or the tree barks.
Cease kissing the pavement
or the people's skin.

Cease hoping
for hope sits on the first row to disappointment.

So please,
please, cease.

Just... cease.

Did you miss me?*

I always miss you, my love.
Like a piece of paper folded in half,
and torn through the middle...
yes,
it could still function,

but is not whole.

We are melodramatic
We are lovers.
We are romantics.
We are poets.

Aye. The romantics. The lovers. The melodramatic. The poets.

:)

*And they love each other

In flare and in consuming woods,
your kisses fell
like elusive embers.

In that flickering labyrinth
of watered avenue
which floods out of your chest

and poured unto mine,
beating faster,
and chasing the sound of your gasps

The sunbeams fell.
And all the leaves yellowed.
And all the years ceased.

And time spread its wings
Where we laid, spent
bodies strangled against the flowing current
Of both our hesitating and certain flights.

Then slowly, very slowly,
the sun burned itself
into cinders.

Because in every fleeting encounter,
we watch all these.

Each and every time.

How far can you walk
into the dark forest?

How far can the dark forest
walk with me?

Every step.

And as I ceased walking
in the university of resurrected moonlights,
I looked at your bare feet
traversing the stars

towards me.

Your breath hung heavy between us,
rapid and dense
As your hands traversed
the fatal land of thousand songs.

And upon the river,
the stars descend and inquire about
the beginning of equinox
and the stretch of the sea.

Because in those hands consuming me,
I found all the certainties
needed by the hesitating days
and all retreating worlds.

Because if poetry has a face,
I found it in your palm
closing on my chest
like the wings of elusive butterflies.

I ache for you,
for your taste,
your skin,
your warmth.

Show me how we are made, my love.

*We are made of fiber,
of hidden moon.
In this tormented city,
we are made to dissolve,

in shadows,
in whispers,
in flare.

In this room,
where the plant grows like seeds in the dark
where the frontier dissolves in the depth of the night.

Meet me, other side of the Earth,
in this dream.
In the presence and absence of sheerness
and all other things.

I shall be there,
knocking upon that window of yours...

And as I lay my body on the sheet,
lay with me, you invisible one.
For I will untangle my hundred worries -
one by one,
like twisted, endless rope.

In a hurry,
the legs of the ant traversed the length of the electric wire.
Half way,
the animal hesitated,

turned round,
met my gaze,
ceased walking
before finally walking away.

It must have understood my plea
to be left alone.

Even the windows had acquired the moss. It sprawled on the pavement, the moss, with all those leaves, fallen barks, soda bottles and old hapless notebooks. The pane was shattered, its edge towering, watching time and absorbing solitude.

The **** on the front door was damped and covered in rust. From the roof, stray veins dangled and decided to suspend themselves in mid-air. Scattered on the pavement leading to the entrance were glittering kisses and shards of glass. A shadow from the past lurks apprehensively – hiding behind the wind, bending below the grass.

They say it was sleeping down the cellar. I never found out. But in the middle of it, a chair has been deserted – broken and abandoned.

The hinges creaked as l slipped my foot inside. I shivered at the face of desolation as my leg touched the corner of the door. The passing time ruined the flooring; stray plants and bleeding flowers sprouted the space and occupied the place. Sometimes, at night, fireflies light this void and drown themselves in ecstasy.

Sawdust fluttered carelessly round the stairs that ceased breathing halfway. The steps have retained the sound of the shuffling footsteps. Even the birds fear this spot, the windowpane had lost all its former glory and shining reflections. The edges of the glasses hang loose and proud, captivating than summer, sharper than words.

I moved close, bended my knees, placed my ear near your half-opened mouth and listened to the sound of your breathing. Your hair draped down the side of your arms, half of your face is hidden away from me and I wonder if you’re calling me in this dream, exhaling my name

Over
And over
And over
And over

Leaving traces and creases on the sheet as I staggered my way back beside you from the labyrinth of this captivating decay unfolding on your very palm.

Believe me, my love,
a beautiful scene in-between the creases of those sheets

And the world wavered, and quivered and threatened to burst into flames!

You are the morning sun,
the beauty whom lights this world of mine,
as you peek over the crest of my horizon.

You are the evening moon,
the beauty whom lights the sky,
every time the sun cannot cover half the earth.

A constant dance we adhere, opposite sides of the earth…
you rise while I sleep,
only passing for a few moments.

A constant song we sing, opposite sides of the earth.
You sleep while I rise,
another step for the beginning ahead.

A delicate noise,
playing amongst our ears,
strumming the strings of our hearts.

It is our ballad, this song-
one the overflows with words of our hearts
to illuminate and give direction to that beginning.
Our beginning.

Our beginning, days anew.
Standing on the edge of the earth, hand in hand,
chasing time and defying storms.

The precipice crumbling beneath our toes, as we begin flight.
Stretching for those stars,
beyond our time,
on the outskirts of the universe we know – hand in hand.

Hand in hand we venture the cosmos,
defying gravity and reason,
but with definite purpose…
To create our composition.

*The stones of the precipice falling beneath our feet, beyond the surface,
as we soar high and above,
rearranging the constellations that time has disarrayed.

Hey. Don’t fall asleep.
hahaha

*hahahah
I won’t
If I end up falling asleep, it would be with you.