So still
I can almost hear
the hands of the clock
painfully fading

and your footfalls,
between us,
slowly stretching away.

Just to let you know,
I will not be here
in case you trail back.

Moving on also exists in my vocabulary.

Says the bird
restless on the stem
perching on her wrist.

Is sitting on the bench
while forever stretches
on the road dividing you
and her.

Gloom covered your face
as you held the remaining strands
of your little doll
pressed to your chest.

I wonder if it hears your heart beating.

The muscles of your jaw tighten
your fist clenched on the tip
of the skirt of that rag around the waist,
covered in sand.

Are those lies piling on your plate?

Arms flailing, limped like stretched promises
subject for renewal
displayed on the rusty railings
of overpriced prisons
and underpriced confinements overthere

overlooking the slums,
the displaced,
the violent, barbaric, filthy slaves
over here.

If I may inquire,
Are you one of those people flooding the street,
making the world go round
and red and red and red?

I pray for the truthfulness of your existence.
How I ardently desire to ****** you,
*******!

The stars are shivering tonight
as your breath cloisters round my neck
while the hands of the clock
move backward

ohmigod.

You wanna know the best thing about us? It's the world we own. We never shared it to the crowd. Or to anyone. Inside, it's just you and me and uneven breath between us.

And it has always been enough.

The only sound the breaks the night was the song of the wind.

Apart from that, the stillness seemed long and unbearable and forever. The walls had finally stopped screaming, and it began to shred its skin, hoping to discover a new hope underneath. Against all uncertainties, odds, and even sheer absence of hope. It bled silently.

The curtain, I'm afraid, continued to sigh and decided to keep its exasperation. I have tried explaining the matter, your situation, but it just looked at me and sighed. It never bothered to offer any response but contentedly suspended itself around the railing, embracing dust; dissolving itself in the labyrinth of the passing years.

Sometimes, it would turn to me and smile, the window. For a fleeting moment, it would allow the edge of its lips to curl, up, up, up, like birds flying then scattering then eventually exploding in the atmosphere until all that's left is the sky hovering above the trees and the remnants of its feather dangling on the leaves.

At night, like tonight, every night, the candle swallows the moon, and fades with summer . I have to ensure that every passerby should witness the fatal glow of its decaying cinders. But I put it there, near the window, not to amaze any passerby. Nor to invite anyone.

I put it there,
near the window,
for you to find your way back home.

You said that I should work. You said that I should work hard. You said that I should save some penny, so I would have some, for the future. So, in our sheer effort to earn a living, we have practically forgotten how to live.

I guess, I must say ******* *******. In the first place, I am not even sure if I would still be here the next minute. Why should I worry about tomorrow?

Why should we care?


*Your Individualist Daughter

Career, in his mind, is just a 20th century invention. My admiration seared when he admitted that he doesn't want one. So unlike a typical human being, that man. Four months later, they found his lifeless body in the Alaskan wilderness.

I could have married him, you know? I could have run away with him beyond the edge of the world - two hunted individuals leaving the stereotypical expectations of this stereotypical society. We could have had children, you know, whose names would be very strange, like the sound of the ocean in its sheer stillness or the explosion of its raging waves.

You know what made him beautiful, among all the others? His act of defiance. Most men that ever existed are coward *******.

Believe me,
the blank page in front of me
the one attached on the monitor has its own face.
It makes my finger tremble,
***** incoherent words.

It looked bright, but vacant
as if married to someone
but without love
like life without meaning
existence without purpose.

For countless times I heard it sighed
a heavy, heaving sigh
a sigh that exhaled past lovers
dissolving on the creased bed sheet
and reappearing underneath the unwashed blankets.

Their egos bruised.
Their names old.
Their home in the labyrinth of yesterday,
in a village somewhere in the world
that revolves between their uneven breath.

Their stories stacked,
in the deepest corner of a human heart.

No one could unearth them.

There is a pear above me
hovering reluctantly.
It's skin firm,
the colour of meadows in the midst
of spring.

Tightly it clung
to that little stem on the branch
which exerted much effort
to keep it away from the ground.

It looked down on me
wanting badly to be picked.
To be kept inside my pocket
safe - and could be taken out
in dark moments for company.

It could also be tossed roughly in the sack
to migle with other pears.
Scratched pears.
Battered pears.
Broken pears.
Happy pears.
Wounded pears.
Rotten pears.
Abandoned pears.
Neglected pears.
Hate pears.

Love pears.

But it clings, above me
completely out of reach.
It sways in the wind,
impossible to be climbed.

And all I can do
is wait here,
down here, down below
until time exhausts the branch
until it decides to push my pear away
in moments when I am most unprepared.

It will fall on the ground
and I won't be there to catch it - like people execute to people.
Its flesh will cover the pavement
the soil will sap its juice.

It will kiss the soles of my shoes when I passed by
Its remnants will knock, then eventually pound.
And I will see that my untouchable pear
has been reassembled to be a ruin
that shelters history
that homes the history people
with historical names
and historical nails
and historical breath.

That house will contain the smell of oil lamps
lost letters, burnt maps and scarred love
and my pear will accompany the parchment
that human thoughts choose to abandon.

Until then,
I will not be writing for a while.

I will always remember
your hair cloistered between my fingers.
The dimness of your room
Your half shadowed face inches above mine,
snow flakes on your forehead,
melting between us.

Your mouth half-opened
the entire universe trembling inside.
Your voice encompassing me,
all over,
tearing me apart.

I will always remember
how you scarred my skin
and how,
every single day,
I searched the trail of your breath

Between the years we could have defied,
Between the oceans we could have swallowed,
Between the destinies we could have cheated
Between the words we could have said,
Between the summers we could have captured

and stuffed in that small hole on my chest
screaming your name,
demanding to be eaten
by you.

Later, I will write a statement welcoming the graduates in the real world.

You know, that world they never told them about: the kind of world that will compel them to wake up at 5:00 in the morning, eat, ****, **** in a limited span of time, do a job repetitively for 8-10 hours which will eventually deprives them of their human growth and dignity in exchange of a mere salary - a portion from the total amount of money which the workers themselves had essentially generated.

Later, I will write a statement welcoming the graduates in the real world.
You know, that oppressive world they will inevitably despise
then eventually overthrow.

Once upon a time mermaids exist.

And castles.
And princes.
And villains.
But never witch, and princesses.

Silverleaf stands above the bricked walls of old shops where hopes were traded for a three year memory.

The old shops breathe on the path made of leaves and twigs and wishes. It ascended to the tower that looks up to heaven forever, to the turrets which the clouds never abandon, to the place where the prince lived. With his wicked uncle.

His mother, with a hair the colour of winter and eyes where dreams lay, died after childbirth. His father whose veins were made up of stars and heart of sandcastle, was murdered in his sleep. And he, the prince, like his parents, will inevitably be killed.

When the time comes.
After he had been crowned.
Before he rules the land.

As he was young and the air was crisp and the day luminous and everything the shade of honey, the mermaid found the prince. Her scales glitter in the sun like crystals basking in summer glow. Her hair was dripped in promises. Her eyes the shade of lilac, of verse, of those people whose world has been swallowed by the sea.

She said hello to the prince.
And smiled.
And the prince fell in love.

As everything does.
Before it falls apart.

The prince went back beside the cave wall, on the stone, to meet the mermaid, day after day. He told her endless tales about burnt maps and oil lamps and treasures and pirates and chivalry. He promised her great lands, and gold. He said he'd build a vast ocean inside the palace where she would live, after he had married her. He said they would have children whose name would be the name of the remote islands, of silence, of the distant worlds and secret happiness. It was the place where he looked at her, interminably. And kissed her. And made love to her. In summer time. On the stone.

And in that moment, I swear they were infinite.

It came. The prince was hailed as the king. The greed to be fulfilled. The uncle to do the act. The death to arrive. The prince to breathe his last.

So with a sword made of glass and unicorn's tears, he stabbed the prince and twisted his heart and snapped its beat like a flower's stem. In disbelief the prince moved back. In triumph his uncle laughed. The prince's hand darted in his pocket, felt the flusk, parted his mouth, exhaled her name and locked her memory in the bottle. The prince fell down. The bottled broke and scattered themselves like confetti. His heed fluttered away from his palm, into neverwhere.

He stooped low, the uncle, and carried the dead body of the prince to the cave, beside the stone. And owned the palace and ruled the land.

The mermaid emerged from the water, held his neck, pecked on his cheek as if marking him hers, and took him to the place where every second never ceases.

And down
And down
And away
they

went.

The crows spent the entire night on your roof.

They have swallowed the moon, and rested on the curtain. Soil and death lingered on their feet, as if ready to take their final clutch.

I flinched as you lifted the lid. You can almost imagine me down here, I suppose, yellowed by the hanging street light which warmth had abandoned after fireflies found a sanctuary in its suspended cold feet. I'm afraid I can only last until morning, but I will still love you until then.

Please, leave a gap on your window.

Let the breeze enter; I will part the wind
and I will slip past your curtain.

I will lie with you
and we will exchange battered whispers.

I will alter the stars
and we will dismember the hours.
We will defy infinity.


**We will disappear.

It happened again. The vulture came and perched on the sill.

But this time, unlike all the other times, it pecked on our windowpane. I unbolted the lid, lifted the frame, and offered some bread crumbs. It didn’t stir. I scattered the morsel on its feet, which it picked like fallen friends.

Aside from this long deserted corridor and abandonment lingering on my exhausted underwear, I wonder what I would have for breakfast.

I half expected that the stars would be reborn after its embers had disembarked. Like a dying flame on the grate, every night when you stir the coal and feed me with lies. In your flicker I have placed my heart, and let my flesh, my bones, my thoughts, be extinguished by its tongue. Only to be molded again, like months, like years, like centuries of false promises and interminable greed. All going on, forever.

And today, the sun had burnt itself into cinders. The ashes is everywhere. On our bedcover where we set the world aside and built an new one. On the wall which witnessed those infinite hours we had, those minutes when my bounty was as boundless as the sea, those seconds when you stared at me before you sleep. It lingers on the fabric of the clothes you last wore, before I heard the creaking steps of your departure, of which you were stationed in some distant place, of which you were told that your country was in grave danger, of which your patriotism is highly requested. Of which you complied. Of which you never returned.

You met another woman, I heard.

I hadn’t cleaned the room for ages. I desire to preserve your scent. Layers of sawdust are now resting on the looking glass, which had witnessed both our everlasting days and hideous crimes, which had shared my fear of you going, my anticipation of you coming back home, and my pain of learning that you were killed in the war, which the government had plotted in order to save the country’s dying economy.

You met another woman, I heard. And told her everything about me.

The vulture came everyday. I have known it for ages, had even fooled myself to befriended by it. The last time it perched on the sill was the last time I saw you, after you had received an order commanding you to join the military. Of which you cannot refuse. Of which, in this continent, we have no choice, but to abide.

And now, it’s here again. And had perched again.

The country requires the service of our eldest son, I heard.

The vulture told me.

This morning as I stroll along, I passed by two security guards carrying guns that could practically shatter
a person's head in a single bullet. Between them stood an ATM being refilled by a bank associate.

This is capitalism:
**An era when paper has more protection and value than human lives.

The smell of ink and abandonment lingered in the air as I stepped inside the room we had scarred. Dust has found a home at last - a place where all your faults were accepted and my hope was never questioned. This is where we hold our entire world. This is where each second lasts everlastingly. This is where forever lives.

Tissues slept on the floor like confetti for my return mixed with crippled promises you have dropped and forgotten.The bedsheet lay awake, exhausted, weary, heaving the sigh you exhaled in a lock room - the smell of your desire, of my frustration, of our longing, of my name. I wonder if they had kept your heartbeat. I wonder if I could have it back.

I wonder if I could have you back.

The silence had preserved every single thing you have uttered - every word a bar, each sentence another lock. Your voice hanged themselves on the cobwebs, the cobwebs had consumed the space and you had filled me with wishes, longing and regrets. I have never expected you to say hello again. I certainly never shall. You never did. You never will.

We slept in our mask and redressed in denial.

Forever is still etched on the atmosphere. I can feel you touching the small of my back, paving your way through my spine, reaching your way to where the burnt maps, love letters, crumpled clothes and drawn out nights were. I can feel you possessing my nape. I can hear you whispering my name. I can see you piercing the night. Why do always you have to be so wonderful?

The scars you have etched on my skin breathe like stars on the pillows you have wounded. They glowed longingly for that smell of yours they’re acquianted with. They stood beyond eternity. The inteminable look in your eyes before you sleep had tampered the wallpapers - the audience of those nights we own, when everything was forgotten, including the world. The story of what if and what could have been filled the space between us - never allowing my arms to cling around your neck, never wanting you to kiss my ear, shielding you to find us on the swell between my *******.

The clock had stopped working.

At least it won’t steal my time.

Maybe I can sleep tonight.

Maybe we can be infinite.

Her hands enclosed his
around the railing
of the crumbling wheel.

She could almost taste
the sweat of the people
suspended in mid-air.

Their arms against their arms.
The sky
over their shoulders.

Birds flared past.
Past the windows.
Past the veins

which wrapped her fingers
which wrapped his fist
like a world

being encompass.

Through the half-opened door, I watched you dissolved yourself in the thousand places and hundred years in your book. The sun hadn’t gone out today, like yesterday. As you flipped the pages and contain love between your fingers, the cat beside you remained uninterested to the benign indifference of the world.

Your coffee had gone cold, cream flared indiscreetly like those letters I have written and never sent, torn to pieces, all bits screaming your name. I can hear the sound of your tongue licking your lips – you always do that, before you form your words. After I disappear with you.

The sound of my footfalls echoed and I watched it wrapped the wall, covered the hinges of the door, up on the roof, and then dripped on its edges, fell like rain, kissed the pavement madly, then broke irrevocably like hearts. In our sheer vulnerability, this is how we encompassed the world.

I moved closer and you disappeared in your secret self, again. Roughness seethed my palm as I invade the space you have fenced. I wonder if this curtain had ever questioned how long has it been since you last summoned infinity, with me.

In this dungeon.
That night.
When the stars were disarrayed.
When immortality was defied.
When heat was lingering on the wall, in the atmosphere.
When I dismembered the universe just to melt with you while the entire space is screaming at me to run.

You must have heard my plea, my open mouth just above your ear. You should have heard me, to never stop your lips from measuring the length of my neck, to never chain your hands set wild between my legs, to let me bury your hair strands between my fingers, to always encompass me in your scorching breath.

And then eventually,
To burn me away.

Please,
lay down
and lay still.

There's so much words
suspended in midair
and I have to select

only the greatest.
Understand that I only want the best for you
and nothing more.

I tremble
as I extend my arms
and choose the words,

the marks,
the phrases,
the sentences,

the scars,
the hearts,
carefully,

afraid that I might pick
the inappropriate star
for my weaving.

I want you to be the most beautiful constellation I will ever create.

And on that day you were born, my Sylvia, I murdered your father. So how you would grow up will depend entirely up to me.

I burnt his graceless flesh and mantled you with isolation. I threw his clothes on the window and buried his existence in the ground. Syl, sometimes you see him suspended in midair, I know, like a strange curve on the portrait, like a portrait wrapped in moth, like a moth perched on the wall, like a wall that doesn’t suit the architecture. But you never bothered to find out, good girl.

You were created in the course of the stars, on the backyard, my Sylvia and molded by flowers, so I must feed you with butterflies, drown you in poetry. You are the constellations I have disarrayed, the world I will dismember. You are the infinity, my love. You are the stretch of the ocean, the look in your father’s eyes before he sleeps. You are the incoherence of forever. You are the inconsistency of happiness.

My Syl, I fear that you will grow up, one day. You will leave this little cottage, and search for a better plastered wall. You will doubt my existence and those bleeding of the feathers. You will tear your skin and discover a new you underneath. You will find your crater of imperfections, you will be astonished, you will begin to wonder, you will begin to question and you will forget about me. You will begin to ***** my lullabies.

Hush, my love, and close your eyes. I will make you immortal. I will stitch you with stardust. I will cover your little lovely bones with perfection. I will smoothen you like a wax; you may kiss your scars goodbye. I will preserve your name with you, and lock you both in a beautiful cage. I will make you immortal. I will make you immortal. I will make you immortal. Like a prayer. Like a lovely prayer.

Your fist locked like a period, began the history, encompassed the world, the silent plea, the quivering resistance, the flickering flame; your little mouth in absolute surrender. You are the rigidity of my everlasting delight, the bleeding poppies in every battleground. Sleep, my Sylvia, sleep, and never wake up.

Stay infinite, my Syl, my sweet, my love. We are greater than literature. We are larger than biography. Always remember that.

Always remember that.

Always remember that.

Always
Remember
That.

As the police
arranged their shield
You stood upfront
and raised your fist.

Your demand
for humanitarian reforms
was answered by beatings
yet you resisted

and struggled
and clenched your fist
and waived your flag
as thousand marched across the streets.

Stones trailed behind you.
I'm glad you're not the type of woman
who burn a life
in the bar

in apathy.

All I remember
was the thin line
draping on my eyes
like curtain hovering around the horizon

and the dancing stars
of funny colours
all restless and reluctant
and the films keep

on rolling endlessly
and fading gracefully
in the fatal blackness
and softness

and coldness
of the pillow
crushing between my knee
and my chest.

But you promised to come back, long time ago.
You remember?

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.

The machine's coldness seethed my hair
as the world sat on my shoulder
that made it surrender
like curtains on a steaming afternoon
sighing questions
and endless uncertainty.

I punched the buttom
wrecked number 3
that bled Espresso
which in this another night
of your absence

would keep me awake
as I intensively unstitch the truth
about your pathetically sewn inventions
and attack the facts
about the abnormality of your society
and irrationality of your culture.

I swear I ******* hate you.
And someday you will die,
*******.

Her head resting on your chest
as you flashed your teeth
and bared a smile.

Your arms around her shoulder
as she curved her lips
like crooked pins.

Your eyes
betrayed your grin
as the camera clicked

one
two
three

and preserved the moment
that was supposed
to be ours.

Seeing your picture
with her,
whoever she is

to my utter disappointment
I did not feel
any pang.

Actually, not anything.
Apart from the fact that I have wasted an effort bracing myself
from something powerless.

And so I stuffed my clothes
Without arrangement
In the desolate void
Of your universe

Where no one
Not even the stars
Could reach
Them out.

And so I grabbed my books
Enough to sustain me
For the longest time ever
of my utter disappearance

from this world
of perfect vanity
and sheer absence
of arts and poetry.

I will be back
After deceiving the fairies.

She bowed her head
and picked up the questions
which fell on her plate.

The fork was marked
with doubt of otherness
engulfing the atmosphere

as thousands hands
escaped from
the thousand rooms

while the walls
and the picture frames
and portraits

and windows
and tapestries
and candle-sticks

exhaled her name
and shook and screamed
for her to run.

You see,
the border of her dress is stained
and is filled with sand.

And so I will make love
and as we devour our skin
as you bury your mouth on my neck
and as my whisper engulfes your cheek
I will scatter verses of Shakespeare
destroy John Keats
curse William Blake
lament over Sylvia Plath
disarray Bukowski
set Hemingway afire
annihilate Gaiman
and when the morning comes
I will disappear
and all that's left
will be the creases on your sheet
and the stars on your blanket
and it will remind you that last night
we danced on the shards
and wreckage of poetry.

It will break your ******* little heart.

Swifts, on a fine morning in May, flying this way, that way, sailing around at a great hight, perfectly happily. Then one leaps onto the back of another, grasps tightly and forgetting to fly they both sink down and down, in a great dying fall, fathom after fathom, until the female utters a loud, piercing cry.....


of ecstasy.

They convinced us
that title
promotion
wage amount
regard
and popularity


are all that matters.

And then I began to see everything in detail:

Her arm around my neck
her nose buried on my cheek
her breath clinging on my skin
her hand tracing my face
the final trail of her fingers
and her steps pulling back.

The interminable look in her eyes before she sleeps
and her slightly open mouth.
The way she turned away
and the way she ran back to me.
The sound of her footfalls
the weight of her embrace
her pressing lingering scent
and her ******* crushing on my chest.
Her skin devouring my skin
and the time perishing in our hand.

The wave of her hair
the flaunt of its strands
the arch of her shoulders
the sway of her arms
the spaces between her legs
the years between her steps
her last endless glimpse
her back becoming walls
her sheer infinity
and the sound of the stars as it explode
one
by
one.

I stood there watching her warmth slowly disappear.
Because this is what it's like when someone who does not love you any longer
walks away.

Between the pages
I will dig your grave
and bury you.

Your promises will stand
scared and shaking
at the edge of otherness

And I will let them explode like stars
and in that fleeting glimpse
I will capture eternity.

I will force the spine;
seal it with iron-lead
and imprisoned poetry.

Then one day,
I will tear those pages
one by one

and fold its edges
one by one
until they become

a collection of unwanted airplanes
that I will crush on your chest
as we stand face to face.

Your voice on my hair
Your breath on my skin.
The arch of your spine.
The void in your mouth.
The flood on your tongue.

They say it's beautiful,
but it's not.

Forgive me I will not be writing for a while. The butterflies had taken all the envelops and the dungeons badly needed new decorations. Rearranging the stars will not take long.

I will be back.
Hang on.

Crumpled bedsheet.
Solitary pillow.
Brown blanket.
Empty bottles.
Unwashed clothes.
Vacant bed.
The light on the window.
The lighter on the sill.
Disorganized desk.
Weary picture frame.
Capured memory.
Your secret door.
Guitar on the wall.
Take-home souveniers.
Half-opened closet.
Broken shell.
Treasured letters.
Apprehensive footfalls.
Envious looking glass.
Scattered reflections.
Strange languages.
Disoriented voices.
Dissolving names.
Falling promises.
Disappearing bodies.
Reunited hearts.
Interminable glances.
Sheer infinity.

**Because your room is a world where everything,
even pain,
is beautiful.

It's noon
and the heat is inconsolable.
Dust conceals the birds in flight.
Car horns are inescapable.
Traffic seems interminable.
Smoke perches like hatred and blame.
Beggars linger like guilt.
Prostitutes on the subway
embrace hour like a lifeline.
Construction workers battle death for a morsel.
**
As you arched your spine
and pushed back your neck,
the light passes through your window
and illuminated the sweat sprawling restlessly on your chest like hasty scribbles.
In this broken world,
I find your ruffled hair fascinating.

Dear You,

Elope with me on a fine summer day.

We'll ride a random bus and hope to end up somewhere strange and unfamiliar. We will communicate in strange languages; laugh at silent jokes. We will lie under the stars, talk about distant islands and let the night hear our secret happiness and endless regrets. Because we're the vikings and we will never be defeated.

We will reappear under your blanket. We'll turn off the light and make love under the faint glow of the moonlight until the inconsolable heat of the afternoon. We'll flicker like a fire, we'll perch like butterflies. I will hold you the way I hold my pen - you can be certain that even after the last drip of the ink, still I will never let go. In my stories, I pledge to make you immortal.

Because you will never age for me.
Nor fade.
Nor die.


Until we defy immortality,
*Me

The light in your window
I will always remember that.
As we propped your pillow
and hid under your blanket.
As we conversed in strange languages
and laughed at silent jokes.
As we exchanged battered whispers
while promises fell like raindrops.

I will always remember us
as we locked the door
and left the world outside.
As you tossed my shoes, burnt our clothes away.
As you consumed my name
while the looking glass admired
the ways we dissolved
then inevitably disappeared.

And I will forever remember
the interminable look in your eyes before you sleep
and your fingerprints
here, there and everywhere.
You are the sweetest scar that had stained my whole existence.

Because we have cheated destiny;
and until we defy immortality.

It was organised
your room
when I entered.

A moment after,
the propped pillows,
the crumpled blanket,
your tired jeans,
my shoes somewhere disarrayed,
our battered whispers,
the traces of your fingerprints,
your heart beneath the bedsheet
and my last glimpse of you

they will forever remind me
of something beautiful.

It's beautiful:
watching the clouds dissolve the left-overs
of our fatal grace.

This is how we disappear.

That I will cheat destiny
just to be near you
once more.