Dear Anon,

******* for running away. I've waited so long under the tree, when the moon was waxing and waning, and when it was full. The flower's stem cloistered in palm tried to hide the growing anxiety that engulfed me as minutes became a long procession of hours.

That was the night when you ran away with the director. And I was there - I stayed there, and still loved you the morning after.

I guess, you will forever occupy a largest portion in my mind. That no matter what I do, I will not be able to shake off the memory of you running away and of me, waiting.

And just so you know, *****, I'm still waiting.
Even now.


*Barbons

You are an enchanting scent, my love.
An addicting fragrance
that I want to wear
all day
and night.

Tonight,
in the midst of
barren buildings and deformed mannequins
I will meet you again.

And we will dance.

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.

I will search new words and exhaust the old one.
I will find them all,
pin them down.

Wrap it in a form of stars
that we will use
in decorating the dungeons.

Which has been abandoned for so long.
We will explore the place, fix the place,
put some shelf, inhabit it
then make love.

All summer.
Beyond every season.

We yearn for truth,
and seek beauty in life.

When we run out of words,
let our eyes do the talking.
Let the world silence our verse.
Let our bodies explain the actions.

We are infinite.
We are growing.
We are the essence of humanity.

I am yours, and you are mine...

We will search the world,
every rock,
and every path...

when there is no more terrain to cross

we will search the sea,
then the sky,
then the universe.

“It seems to me
as if every word in English language
is inadequate to describe us,” she said.

“We’re perfect.”

You came into my dreams last night.
I can't recall the details
but I remember you.

Do come again.
I shall be waiting.

*I will...
to sweep you away.

But I think I would have to yield for now.
I can't think straight.
And struggling to keep my consciousness.
Indeed, I can barely hold unto it.

Good night.

I'll be waiting in my dreams.
In that world of endless happiness,
secret longing
and resurrected hopes.

Please, don't be late.
Don't be late.
Say you will still love me in the morning,
Before I go.

*I will love you in the morning of this day and the next.
I will love you on every morning you awaken,
and even the ones you will miss.
I will love you to the point time no longer makes sense.

Hey.

The thing is,
I cannot find the words
to articulate the points of differences
between love and infatuation.

I just know.

I know I am not infatuated with you -
how can I be infatuated with someone I haven't even seen?
But,
what I have for you had surpassed the space between us.

It's like we are standing opposite to each other,
directly parallel,
with this gulf, this vast gulf between us.
Dividing us.

What I have for you
is not a bridge that connects these two lands,
nor a boat to deliver me
to that other land

but an element,
an essential element
in order for that bridge to be constructed
and that boat to be built.

It's a bit funny how the greatness of universities
from being the very institution
responsible for the cultivation of the critical mind
has been reduced to a mere store
retailing false assurance
and bits of paper.

What if the cure for cancer is just lurking somewhere,
somewhere in the head of someone
who happens not to have enough funds
to purchase the commodity
and privilege of education?

Pure bliss, I'd say
Stare into the air
and think of you.

The masterpiece of my own volition.

Stay there,
your breath pressed on the base of my neck,
just above my shoulder.

And I ask you to linger, butterfly,
as I catch some air
and chase the storm.

And apart from my camera,
I also carry our interminable conversations
which I will take out every now and then
to amuse myself and smile alone
while walking down the subway
and thinking of you.

I also carry the scenes of the movies we have watched
and your favourite quote of Robin Williams
and the sound of your guitar strings
traversing the chord of my headphone
as you play a song at 4 o'clock in the morning.
And sang Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

But above all, there are so much more ahead of this
than the stretch of this long, endless road.
All our dreams lay ahead
and plans and all our years.
And those moments of us evaporating in the afternoon delight
or evening sanctuary.
White. Green. Crisp yellow. And burning orange.

So I will embark on a journey.
And I will carry all these with me.
And all these,
all these are certainly heavier
than the backpack on my shoulder.

But I will bring them anyway,
believe in them,
love them
and never let them go.

There’s a thunder inside your chest, Nick.
I can feel the echoes,
as my palm pressed on your shirt.

I wonder how the fabric of your clothes
against my skin feels like
as we lay on your bed
and stare at the ceiling
while the fog clouds the window
and your hands lightly graze my neck
making little circles.

When someone takes a picture of me and asks me to smile,
I will think of you.

*I am in that flash,
that click of the camera,
one that lightly grazed your body,
captures your beauty.

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.

Can be found
in the middle of the bridge
that is slowly crumbling
brick by brick
falling down the water
making it ripple
breaking it apart
then becoming whole again.

The meaning of picturesque
can be seen
in the tightness of your hands
wrapped around my wrist
as we run for our lives,
you leading the way.

The definition of picturesque
can be heard
in your laboured breathing,
and in every echo
of our apprehensive
foot
falls.

It gets thicker
seconds by seconds
a pool of concentrated red
flowing freely
from my fingers
down the sink.

Using this blood,
on the wall,
I will write your name
and curse you.

Flocks of birds
flew past overhead
and patched the clouds
which drift ceaselessly

on the interminable stretch
of the ocean and sky
that connects the passages
between you and me.

Today,
The waves rolled
and unrolled
and remembered your name.

But I'm too intoxicated
and every word
seems never enough.

In the corner of my room
stood a mirror
that had witnessed
our countless hideous crimes.

Even now,
I can still smell
your scent
lingering on the bedsheet.

I can still hear
your gasps
sitting in the air
like tiny atoms

composing my flesh
which had grown so
accustomed to the warmth
of your skin.

In front of the mirror
I stood
and the last thing I remember
is the tempting sneer

on the razor's edge.

In the howling wind,
I push my window open
and wait for you.

Paced back and forth
relentlessly and around
in that room
inside my head
without a window
but with shelves
lined with ruins
and old books
beside the solitary bed
amidst the broken wings
of starving dragonflies.

In that place
with a way in
but not a way out

he breathes.

If you would tear my clothes open
on my chest you will see
a never ending hole
in a silhouette of you.

No.
I'm fine.
As a matter of fact,
I'm happy. And perfect.

Yes,
my hair's uncombed
and my clothes are ragged
and I live everywhere

Under the table, sometimes
framing infinity.
Or on the edge of the precipice
conquering literature and flying

Or somewhere in the street
scattering the everlasting tunes
whilst letting the wind dismember
the feathers swirling round my earlobe.

It's my choice.
I refused to inhabit the life of conventionality.
On a fine summer day,
if you prefer, you can

Run away with me.

Peers on your window
at night
when you're asleep
and inhales the arch
of your shoulder
barely visible
to the moonlight.

I'm trying to write something,
something I cannot guarantee.
Trying to make it fluid,
by containing it in words
woven restlessly
by my restless hand.
Hoping that they might pour
and traverse the spine of your back
down your leg
and make you laugh.

As your fingers fell flat
on the key board,
your head turned upward
eyes closed, mouth curled in one edge
your hair in sheer uncertainty,

and one at a time
the notes suspend themselves
in the atmosphere
lingering as if
they know no tomorrow.

Watching you from the half-opened door
I want to tell you how beautiful you are to me.
So beautiful that every word in English language
is inadequate to describe you.

The sun is slowly sinking
a wreck on the ocean
trapped in its inevitable destitution.
Steaks of endless goodbyes
loomed over people's shoulders.

While atop the mountain
the streaks of glittering hope
eradicated the darkness
hovering round the wreck
annihilating annihilation.

Between them lay
various forms of forever
in the stretch of the ocean
in the interminable look in their eyes
as they stand on the edge
of the opposing precipice.

Their arms extended
under the same sky.

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

The tip of my fingers
beat restlessly on the table
the way an apprehensive fist
knocks on a locked door.

My back touched the fabric
of the couch
as I slouched and tilted my head.

I let my elbow fell on the armchair
as my thumb flew between my lips
and my teeth perched on its flesh.

My forefinger
ran back and forth, restlessly,
on my nose bridge

as I inhaled the details
of your head thrown backward,
your hair suspended in midair.

some strands draping down your chest,
your mouth half open,
your secret self and your entire being

all seducing my peripheral vision.

If I were to conquer an arena in fiction writing,
it would be the field of morbidity.

Say,
human hearts strewn on the floor,
with spiders trailing on its artiries
while the entire room is screaming at you to run.