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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I,
am the woman from your future

And you,
are the man from my past.

Aren't we,
*ironically magical?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Do you want to walk with me tonight?

I'll take you out;
we'll find stone walls.

I'll compose poems for you
and recite it in low, husky voice
while the wind trembles and
the pebbles shake beneath our steps.

I promise we'll stop when exhausted.
Catch our breath.
Laugh around.
Throw banters
to the stars.

Then maybe --
maybe --
kiss.

The night will adore us.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

Once there was a girl
in a far away place
who wrote thousands
and thousands
and thousands
and thousands
of endless letters

but sent not a single one.

Give me this feeling of elation
And I will prolong it
By not possessing you.

I will indulge in this feeling
Until it disintegrates
into nothingness.

You will evolve
But still,
I will not possess you.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

towards me.

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

Hey. Don’t fall asleep.
hahaha

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

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.

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.

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

Girl,
Angels do not have wings
Demons do not have tails
What they told us
Are plain *******.

We,
otherworldly creatures,
Are larger than the streets we've roamed
Are greater than the books we've read
Are deeper than the oceans we've swallowed

Are longer than the nights we've sojourned
Are scarier than the monsters in our head
Are vaster than all stories
and possibilities
and gloriousness combined.

So tell me, girl,
who needs wings and tails
and a god that fails
When we're grander
Than life itself?

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.

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.

How far can you walk
into the dark forest?

How far can the dark forest
walk with me?

Every step.

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.

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.

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.