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.

My internal landscape was once a wetland. Grasses and herbaceous plants sprout from the ventricles of my heart. My rib is a birch tree, a deciduous hard wood crowned with thin leaves. My veins are wild ravines. Inside it is the torrent of rain water that keeps me alive.

My heart is a beating water lily, eternally blooming on the lake of my blood. I was a sullen mist, and I loved it that way.

But they mistook my solitude for loneliness, the crowd, the clever engineers. So they loaded sands on their trucks, sacks after sacks. They opened me up, covered my wetland, and built a city inside me. They paved roads. They constructed buildings. They opened cafes and pubs and restaurants. They turned on their neon lights.

A rave party is inside me at night, and they won't stop until I am filled with cigarette stubs and empty bottles and used issues and half-eaten plates -- litters and grime that I have to clean every morning of my life. My gutter is overflowing and they call this happiness.

I call this wreckage.

I moved close to the bed, pulled the sheet and laid down. I tried to remember my by-gone world -- my birch trees, my herbaceous plants, my wild ravines, my water lily -- before I was converted into a rattling shell called Happiness.

You wrapped your arms around me and press your face on small of my back. My spine was a hard wood once, and every October it shed its golden leaves. "What do you want?" you asked.

The neon lights and the avalanche of noise from everywhere drowned my thoughts, and all I can do for my defense is curl my mutiliated body.  "Love me until the end of everything," I whispered. "And understand that this is not a plea."

This is a burning desire to have my wetland back.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

You are very wrong.
Love
Is not all we need.

We need time.
We need comfort.
Desire.
Intimacy.
Anticipation.

We need understanding
And someone
Who can actually understand.

Upon laying down,
We need an actual person
Who is still interested
In touching our skin.

Inch by inch
After everything.
And love...

is not encompassing.

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

The rest of the entire world can fall away.

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.

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

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?

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.

"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.

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

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.

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.

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

The masterpiece of my own volition.

The last time we were together,
I was sleep
my arms wrapped around your chest
holding you close
and not wanting to let you go.

That was before your flight to the United States
And you woke me up with a kiss.

At 2:37 last night,
I was haunted by the thought
that you are no longer the same person
who will wake me up with a kiss
before his flight to the United States.

Happiness
Is too safe,
Too ordinary.

It deprives me of my verses.

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.

They convinced us
that title
promotion
wage amount
regard
and popularity


are all that matters.

And in retrospect,
You will find
the good things.

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

ohmigod.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Dearest.

I had spilt my coffee
on your working table.

The manuscript that you were finishing
flinched, yelled, bled painfully
then stared at me accusingly

doubting your existence which is
gracefully drowning in the fatal glow
of left-overs and world dropping dead.

Perhaps, after a long time,
your heart will take its beat tonight.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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,
*******.

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.

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

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.

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

This is how we disappear.