you used to bring me everywhere with you
i used to make you smile whenever i sang
you strummed on my heartstrings
and i melted to your touch

but one day you strummed too hard
with anger and frustration
my heartstrings snapped
and i could no longer sing for you

now i'm your broken guitar

my eyes are like a camera,
clicking away at the view.
my heart is like a locket,
keeping a picture of me and you.

we don't need a filter,
to maintain model shots.
it's best when it's stolen,
like it is with our hearts.

the process will be long,
but we know it's worth the wait.
for the best pictures are the memories,
which we patiently create.

"will i be able to hold your hands someday,
wishing they would never let go?"

and the hours would feel complete
when that day at last arrives,
24/7 my hand's in yours,
the moment day fades into night.
touching fingers, grazing skin,
our life's a polaroid-- white and black,
once our images, hearts and hands are captured,
we can never go back.

She loved him as if she rode on a carousel
the enchantment, the dream, the fleeting reality
of him sitting a distance from her.
No matter how much they moved,
she didn't know how to reach him
or to catch up with him.
Because once the ride ends
she has to grow up and leave,
stepping out into a world
where she's no longer the princess
and he's no longer her prince.
...
To have loved you and have left,
I will never be sure if the time will come
for me to love you again.
But I know the magic will be there
every time "I see you in the night sky
and hear your laughter in the stars"--
that I will always remember.
You don't have to be in front of me
and I don't have to see you
for us to know I love you.
Because "it is with the heart that is essential
but is invisible to the eye".
...
I love you, my prince.
And no matter how many moons are out there,
you're the first I have ventured to and admired from afar:
that make's you my moon.

A source of light in the dark. You were there every night, peeking behind the clouds, awaiting my return home from school or work. You may think you're a dull gray color but you shine brightest in the dark, to me.

I wish it was always night so that I'd get to see you in your fullest form-- the last thing before I close my eyes. Even when you're the invisible new moon, I know you're always watching me, giving attention to every big turn I make when I am restless in bed, and down to the tiniest movement under my eyelids when I am deep in a dream.

I want you to know that even if the dark pits of the night swallow you up and you feel like your light is burning out, I will always be here, looking up, looking for you. And looking towards the day when you show yourself and return to my sky again, as the moon that I've grown to love.

What, exactly, is a star? It's made up of so many things. Scientifically, it's a body of gases rubbing off against each other to create friction and heat, thus turning into a ball of bright red or blue light. And as for airplanes, they're the only mode of transportation in the air; once a man's dream, now everday's reality. The airplane can travel to any corner of the world-- how cool and sweet is that?

I see you in airplanes. I imagine them as shooting stars, with me wishing for you. I also see you in the stars, also imagining them to be airplanes which are frozen in time, with who knows where they have traveled to in the past, or where they're bound to fly to.

I love you as the stars, and I love you as the airplanes. I love you either way. No matter how far you are or how far you will go, I know I can always find you out there, free in the skies.

I see your figure hunched over the old grand piano; I see your worn fingers slowly graze the keys which once locked our promises when you used to play me songs.

Now, I only feel the warmth of you as I sit on the piano bench, and when my fingers touch the keyboard. I have never felt any more monotonous and monochromatic than the notes and keys which I effortlessly hit.

I'm playing right, but why do I feel like I'm playing the biggest mistake of a song in my entire life?

Just you alone is home, my home-- I'm sure you already know that. I still see you in places, specific ones, like my kitchen: I picture you rummaging through the fridge and the overhead cabinets for random ingredients of a potential cook-up. Or maybe you'd be seated at your favorite place in the adjacent dining room, at the head of the table, looking over at the kitchen where I would be making your favorite dish.

I see you adjusting your coat by the hallway mirror, and you'd grab my hands, asking for my help as I'd walk by. On nights you are framed by the sheets on the bed, smoothing out a pillow and patting the spot by your side for me to get in. Some nights, you sit up against the headboard and whip out a book from your literary collection. On mornings, you live so well in the living room, with the news on, while having a newspaper on hand as well.

You've become my definition of home. But now that you're gone, I am lost on finding a new place to move my heart into.

It's windy tonight. Not a cloud in sight. And the ever-glory of the mass blue sky was dotted once again with the friends of the sky. Guardian of my house, Orion, with his strong, bright 3-starred bow, burns steadily, as opposed to the Ursas of the north, with the bleak Polaris, its light a little faded due to the lights of the northern cityscapes.

I think of you in these circumstances. Whether you'd be looking at the sky as well, trying hard to find the connecting dots. Stay warm under this cool season, alright? I've yet to brush my teeth or even get my blanket and pillow, because I've decided to sleep under the stars tonight, and they're too beautiful for me to even pass a second without looking at them.

Just like how I think about you. My thoughts are still as the stars in the night sky, sometimes bleak and sometimes bold. I hope you never lose your way even if you feel like it. The Polaris will always be guiding you. My thoughts will always be guiding you. For you, I'll be constant as the stars above, so always know that you are loved.

How can you know when something or someone is near or far? Or there or here? Is it the gravity felt between the souls of two people destined to be in each other's lives, similar to the moon and the ocean waves? Could it be the same feeling when you know a pair of eyes are on you in a crowded place, waiting to see what is brought upon by the twist of fates? Or maybe it's the pulling red string which stretches from two pinkies, thus binding two hearts together.  

...

I liken loving you to stargazing. On clear nights, the destination and direction--you-- are just as clear. Only the distance as usual, remains vague and vast, filling the space between us. With me reaching out to you, it was more hopeless than a child wishing on shooting stars. There were even times I had to wish for a shooting star; to wish for you falling down and into my arms.

I look for you in the places where I know I'd find you, and even in the places where I know I wouldn't. We're so close, yet so far, with every centimeter between us seeming like an eternity of a mile. You were immoveable, yet it seemed as if you were getting farther with every inch I moved closer to you. Neither my fingers nor my eyes could ever catch you.

And all so suddenly, on one clear night I realized: I didn't, couldn't and wouldn't get my answers to knowing how near or far you are to me.

Depth doesn't scare her.
In fact, it's the one thing she looks for in almost everything.
She was a swimmer, one who floated face-up in deep waters-- in the pool, sea, and metaphorically, life.
Depth to her, was a symbol of freedom and significance.
She wasn't afraid of it or getting lost in it. If she let the tides carry her of their will and to the shore, she knows she wouldn't drown. In the end, she was at home in waters and their uncertain depths. She didn't always need to see the bottom or what is waiting for her. This was life to her.

The same applies to the winds of the night sky, where she was a light cloud with a fleeting presence. She would be here today, and the next moment she would be gone with the wind, swept up in the dark skies above, far off into the deep atmosphere.

All the more has she fallen deep for this certain person in her life, a descendant of Orion.
His eyes were as bright as Betelgeuse and were deeper than the darkest parts of the ocean. ****** into the whirlpools of his eyes, and into the windows of his soul, did she get a glimpse of how he was like.
She would give anything in exchange for a long soak: she was deep in her love for him.

On afternoons she finished her swimming regimen in the sea and headed to the hilltop sports complex before sundown.
There, she watched him shoot arrows with his long bow embraced by his long arms. His deft fingers positioned to hold the arrow in place, and she almost felt her heart stop like the way a criminal froze in surrender before a policeman pointing a gun at him.
Only in her case, he wasn't a policeman nor was she a criminal (unless watching him without him knowing would be considered stalking, therefore an offense), he held a bow, not a gun and that he was not aiming at her.

But the way his slender body heaved with every deep breath spurred a similar memory in her: steady, balanced and clear as the skies above and the waters beneath her body and surf board.
Just before the board and her arms slice through the water's surface tension; just before he releases the arrow which pierces through the light air around him. Staying still for so long to get the perfect posture puts a pressure on one's body. To see him let go with one eye shut for focus was a relieving sight to her.
She knew that familiar tension and expectation that surrounded him.
To her, watching him was like star gazing as always; he was, after all what she called a "descendant of Orion". He was the only thing she saw so bright and clear in that dim archery room and only the sunset casted soft shadows on his face.

She wondered if he would ever find out about the way she felt for him. Every time an arrow slipped through his fingers faster than a time-slip, she felt as if a part of him departed along with it.
Why was it so, she thought, that it seems like I'm loving the impossible; a night dream which won't be carried off and fulfilled by dawn? As if he was a dream too deep in my sea of memories, anchored to the bottom of improbability and unable to rise to the surface to make itself known to him.
A fresh salty breeze filled the air. This happened whenever the winds blew over the waves or when she didn't notice her own tears fall.

His life had a sense of leaving in it. It was either the way his arrows left him and his bow or when he left the sports complex; and in the future, leaves the town and leaves her life. It was more than decided that he was bound to leave the place and head back to the metropolis where he came from.
He belonged to the city of bright lights.
Nothing can ever compare to the way he shines, though, she said to no one but the winds and waves that build up her life.
He was a rocket fueled for takeoff. Ready anytime to leave, to return to the sky, back in the home of the stars.

And she was a mere girl who sought depth in her life:
the water, the sky,
their existence and his eyes.

I missed him not in raindrops,
But in roaring tidal waves.
We were wild.

I missed him not in breezes,
But in dizzy hurricanes.
We were crazy.

I missed him not in a bouquet,
But in a maze of flower gardens.
We were lost.

I missed him not in a cloud,
But in the heavens above.
We were ethereal.

I missed him not in a rain puddle,
But in the lakes and seas.
We were deep.

I missed him not in the new world,
But in historical lands.
And up to this day, it's still the same,
We are classic.

he used to be soft
and warm was his heart
when all of a sudden
it turned out to be hard.
it's just that,
he's not a block of ice
which could be melted
with an embrace.
he's a cold stone,
and stones can't melt
only chiseled and hammered,
by someone strong and sharp enough.

but i'm not that someone,
even if i am an artist,
who knows how to sculpt.
i'm not to break down your walls
how could i, with you
standing far, and tall?

but how could you be so,
cold and hard,
yet fragile and breaking,
it frightens me to hold you closer
lest i smother you to death

Ten. Where are you? Are you there yet? It's been so long since we last met. I've missed you.

Nine. With only a few seconds to go, doesn't it feel like hours until we can be together once again?

Eight. Be patient. I'll be there soon enough. Wait for me.

Seven. Waiting sure does weigh an eternity. My heart is getting heavier by every passing moment.

Six. Think of the weight on your heart as a paper weight, atop the receipt I gave to you the last time we met, with our meeting place and time scrawled on it. Don't remove what anchors me to you.

Five. Pulling heartstrings won't get you anywhere, you know. Hope can be the worst betrayal.

Four. And hope can be the best loyalty. Now, will you hope and be loyal?

Three. Anything it takes to be, as long as it's with you. You have my pinky swear.

Two. Give me your four other fingers. And your eyes. And your attention. All of you, I miss it and I long for it.

One**. Midnight. He turned me around, 180 degrees, a half-moon, a lemon-slice, a perfect arc right into his arms. The minute hand has finally reached the hour hand. And our hands have finally reached each other.

roses are red,
ink is black.
give me credit
or give it back

The Lady Moon
Used to glow
With all the joy
We've yet to know

     But now her face
Has fallen apart
And broken--
Is her weary heart

     To a crescent phase;
Half of her emotions seen
A mysterious night-ruler,
The sad, pale queen

     She is crestfallen
With the falling stars
She is the lonely Venus
Left by the gone Mars

I thought of the boy who has yet to be the best of himself. I thought of how the love I felt for him seemed like a crooked line, wanting to bend and curve into any shape possible. I thought of how his words enraptured me like a tornado with its never-ending cyclonic movement; a cycle of feeling the rush of breathlessness. I thought of how the boy has my heart and mind racing in a circle. I thought of how he was soon to grow into a hurricane, ready to captivate others beside me. I thought again of how he has yet to be the best of himself; give him a thousand rotations of the clock to grow. But I realized how much better I can be for him by then, when now he has already gotten the best of me.

to write and send a million letters to you,
then being returned back to me unread,
is like wishing on the stars in the sky,
which, in reality, are people who are dead.

wishing on falling leaves or feathers,
why must i use those things
if they themselves have fallen
from branches of life and free wings?

why would i believe in the luck of a penny,
when money can't buy your love?
the colorful palette will revert back to gray,
no matter how many rainbows are above.

there's one more thing i can wish upon;
they told me the moon's a way that's sure.
but how will my wish come true,
if it's you i'm wishing for?

When one leaves,
They never really do.
They are present in the void
They have left you with.

Sometimes, you think you'd be recovered from a heartbreak.
But when I saw the picture of the pagoda I took on that day,
I saw your face.
Memories resurfaced,
the sewn heart has a few stitches loosened,
and what if's appeared once more like how they did on that fateful morning.
We weren't close,
I admit we never were.
But you affected me greatly,
and I wish I'd done better.
Now I can only look at you in photographs or in memories and dreams.
Suddenly, reality seemed less of a reality compared to the dreams and photographs you were in.

I don't know who these tears are for;
They're like the unsent letters on my desk.
I can't explain them;
They keep coming out
Of my eyes and hands
For the ones I cannot name.
They say and mean many things
But I can't show them to anyone.
They surround me
Like wild thriving grass after the rain.
I don't know who all these are for,
But I do know they are all from me.

what if
we were meant to be
in another lifetime
but i had known you
sooner or later
than i should have?

would loving you now
still be a valid reason
to relive the sooner
and to anticipate the later?

i'm a dog; i'm the rain
i can make you cry
but i can also
take your pain

Like the switch button of a 90s television set, the echoes of a knock and a dead bolt’s lock pierces the static air of sharp breathing.

“Define stay, in your point of view, when you can’t even be here to explain its meaning directly to my face,” she pleads with glassy eyes on the verge of breaking down.

She silences a sob with the tearing of handwritten letters and the burning of old photographs.  She won’t need them; she already has every word bound and every pixel branded onto her memory, as much as she tried to annihilate it all.

Behind the closed door, his eyes mirror hers.  His tongue was dry, but careful enough to select the words that would quench their parched throats and hearts.

Will she open a new door? Will he face a new destiny? Are they even in the same corridor, the same floor, the same building?

They’ve been roaming separately, unsure of their directions if one is following the other’s path. Or are they just traveling in circles of pure coincidence?

He knocks again.

“Stay is when my hands or eyes are unable to hold you close, yet you know you’re home.  Because of the way you are anchored to my voice when I say your name, or the way my heart keeps you with me.  

Stay doesn’t always require physical presence.  

I know you are already decided on staying whenever I enter your mind, whenever you think about me. And you know I can never leave your mind, much more your heart.”

She stays put where she is.

The only thing she leaves is the door—open—for him.

it's better when the lights are off,
you shine brighter like the stars.
i feel you nearer, i see you clearer,
when we close our eyes in the dark.
to breathe in the scent of you and the countryside,
to leave our fears in the metropolis and city lights,
makes me love you and nature in its simplest form,
from it you came, that i could have sworn.

I've been wishing for you,
wishing on you;
Is this the reason why
my dreams don't come true
because they don't need to?
When you're here
dancing as the pale moonlight
across my shadowed skin;
it's only in the dark
when I can let you in,
and we can see each other
best and in our brightest.
So paint yourself on the canvas of my thoughts;
allow me to be the blank pages you need.
I'll empty myself for you to fill me whole
with this dance of the thirteenth month—
a tribute birthed out of this tune.
When it ends I'll never move again
the same way I did before:
because now you are the echoing pulse of my bloodstream,
and I'm completely anew like the full moon.

In this society
of souls from the millennium
Invigorated by validation
Drugged only skin-deep
With toxic actions and words
And prices ruling like
A silver-spoon-fed princess
The value of an individual
Plunges deep into the depths
Of the shallowest mirror-like pools

I can only sigh
As I sit in this new class
Alongside new faces
And the absence of the professor
I think of refunding my expensive tuition fee
When I pay my utmost attention
To everything around me

so young,
you've already taken
the world
by a storm
grabbing their gazes
enticing their ears

so old,
you're still taking
our hearts
by a gentle breeze
sweeping us off
of our feet

you are the element
natural
and
unstoppable

What happens when an artist falls in love with another artist?

She felt as if she wasn’t in love with another artist, but rather, a form of art. He was the kind of art that made artists think that their brains were the ones which conceived the idea of his existence. He was the type of art that made artists pray that their hands were the ones which molded and could touch his face. He was the category of art that made artists wish that their hearts were the ones which loved and could exhibit him to the world. He was the subject of art that made artists realize that their eyes followed him wherever he went.

It was nearing the year-end cold season. Tree leaves were turning a rusty color, ready to peel themselves off from the branches and fall, as the season suggests. This was her favorite time of the year: her being able to wear her autumnal wardrobe collection and her feelings relating to the descending movement of leaves. It was fall. And fall she did as well, for the boy who took up the featured gallery space in her mind of an art museum.

On one of the stone benches across the building of their college, she positioned herself, plugged in her ear buds, pressed play and closed her eyes. The playlist, dedicated to the boy who was a year younger than her, amplified the emotions she felt for him once again.

No, it isn’t strange to like one who’s younger than you, she thought. He is, after all, still towering at least nine inches over me. Crazy how the height of a person could make you tremble yet feel secure, and not to mention, could make them seem older.

He didn’t give the impression of an athlete, especially those fond of outdoors sports with sun exposure. He was pale with a soft glow, much like the first rays of the early morning sun around the time first period starts. He looked fragile with his thin stature. At least that was how her eyes saw him. To her, he was like a prized antique porcelain from the Orient—-a tall, thin, pale jar that held volumes of substance.

Her eyelids snapped open. Like a jar? How absurd, I can’t believe I just compared my crush to a jar, a nonliving object-

Her thoughtful monologue evaporated as soon as it condensed, for there he was, exiting the building. Since she sat directly across the entrance, it seemed as if he was walking over to her.

He was alone. This was her chance. She had pondered on this moment and had planned it out for months. After a bin of crumpled papers, two used pens and a tired brain and heart, she was done with writing her note and poem for him. The papers lay inside her bag, fragile and pale as the person she wrote to and for, yet to be exposed to the outside world.

Letting her eyes float over him, her senses flooded her being as her mind began to swim in the depths of what-if’s and maybe’s. She knew she was as frozen as arctic waters, and she hoped it was the breeze that made her shiver and not his gaze as he scanned his surroundings—her included. She hoped she wasn’t too obvious, at the same time, she hoped he wasn’t too oblivious.

But she could never tell if he was looking at her then. A sun ray peeked out from between the tree branches above and settled on his face, making his eyes disappear almost altogether, like the waning crescent from her favorite moon phases. He raised a long, bony hand to block the glare and soon, he was of her arm’s reach in search of a place to sit.

As much as she wanted him beside her, she didn’t want him beside her in that way. She didn’t want him to sit next to her just because there was space beside her. And she didn’t care if she was being too picky about the scenario. If something is meant to be, it will happen; one way or another.

After seeing her place her bag next to her on the bench (which took up the space he wanted to sit on), he averted his narrowed gaze to the crowded pavilions right behind her and moved on.

Was it a mistake? Was this the chance I missed? Was I supposed to let him sit with me and talk to me? The sudden invasion of such assumptions made her head spin at the reckless act. Now he probably thinks I’m selfish. He might even think I’m reserving the space for a friend. He might even think I’m waiting for my boyfriend, which I don’t have at all. Unless…

This was no time to think up a joke about adopting him as her boyfriend, though; she held the unspoken rule of “paycheck before boyfriend” close to her heart. Soon enough her thoughts settled as he took off his red backpack and sat on the newly vacated stone bench a few meters beside hers.

There it was again: the chance that returned for the second time because it pitied her heart that yearned to get close to his. And there was no denying that she did want to go up to him and introduce herself.

To any passing stranger, both of them seemed to be waiting for someone; perhaps, to be even waiting for each other without them realizing it.

Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t do this. Not right now, not yet, maybe not ever. She didn’t want to disrupt that peaceful life of his. He was the quiet type, and she didn’t want to embarrass herself in case she wouldn’t shut up once she said hello.

Writing in her journal during these unsteady moments made her hands calmer and more focused. Thus did fresh black ink for the boy blossom on a pristine page that very instant. Additionally, because her mind was in turmoil, she penned in expounded bullet forms.

- I want to know him. A lot. I want to know him because I like him.
I like him because I want to know him. I like him. A lot.
- Suddenly, school at 7am doesn’t seem so bad after all.
- He is wearing his navy blue, I suppose knit, pullover. It makes his shoulders wider and makes him taller. He gingerly took his phone out of his pocket, with those careful hands of his. I can imagine him holding my heart the same way. But my heart is the heart of a stranger, so would he be as gentle? I doubt so.
- I’m wearing my navy blue crochet pullover. This is too much of a coincidence. He pulls the navy blue top look off better than I can/do.
- A face like his belongs somewhere else but it seems as if his heart belongs here.
- I don’t care if people think he’s all I have on my mind this very moment. I want to write about him. They might think my writing is useless because it may seem like I’m immortalizing him. But they don’t realize that I write to express my feelings. Yes, my feelings for him will be magnified this way. Yes, my feelings for him will overwhelm me, the more I write about him. Then, before anyone knows it, I have already stopped thinking and writing about him. But for now, I am flooding my head with him. Because one day I know I won’t be able to contain another drop of him. I am flooding my head with him, only to drain him out of my heart in the end.
- I hope he doesn’t know that what I write and listen to have fragments of him. And I dedicate Taylor Swift’s old song Stay Beautiful to him because he deserves it.
- Superficial as my admiration of him may seem to be, I wish we could be friends (?!?) So I can admire him for real. And maybe get him his favorite snack on his birthday without the awkwardness of strangers.
- Wow. He’s looking in my directio-

No way. Is he looking at me? She held her breath again and casted so much of a side glance. It can’t possibly be me; he must have been looking at other captivating girls around me anyway.

The vibration of her cellphone made her tear her eyes away from him; she received a message from a friend whom she was to have lunch with.

Almost there, where are you?

His movement from her peripherals pulled her back to his presence again. He’s packing up? Already? But he just got here a few minutes ago, as much as I want to leave, I want him to stay… if that even makes sense…

He picked up his bag and stood up to walk over to her bench. One step, then two. His long strides were getting to her faster than she thought.

It was too soon. She felt it was still too early. It wasn’t time to get to know him.

Meet me at the carpark, she replied to her friend.

He was making his way to her with his impassive expression thanks to those eastern Asian eyes. Those same, tired eyes which caught her very own two years ago.

In the following seconds she was making her way past him. She held her head high and her shoulders back. He froze in place, confused if she made a mistake in missing him or if it was his mistake into thinking of her wanting to speak to him.

Today was not the day. Then and there she decided she wouldn’t talk to him, give him her note and poem, nor her attention and time. She didn’t even think of the imaginable future, which was unusual of her, if she would give him her number or even her heart in the time to come. One step, then two, she counted; I am walking away from you.

This was as far as she could get close and say hello to him—a walk-by and a silent goodbye.

expectation's a sin in secret
and i think i might know why,
because somehow disappointment is apparent
no matter how many times you try.

to please those around you,
forgetting about yourself.
in the end it's all in vain
if your heart is on the shelf.

please don't expect from me
and don't make me promise
i'll fulfill your dreams.

it already seems like
i'm living your life,
i'm becoming you, it seems.

I used to make poetry
That would appeal to many.
I was wrong.
Because now I write
As long as I would feel right.

looking into
your eyes,
i wouldn't think
of getting lost
in them.

instead,
your eyes
are a getaway
where i find myself.

i'm just a whirlwind
i'm one of the mere walls
which try to surround and get close to you
but i know you can never be contained
not even with the strongest arms
or the toughest heart

you are the eye of the storm
and no matter how calm
or vague you are or seem to be
you are the gusty centerpiece,
the focused target
of everyone revolving around you

i hope you realize you've caused
the best kind of mess
that's all natural
and has left me speechless

because in this storm
of youth
i have found the calm
in you

i know we're in the same book.
but yet to be on the same chapter,
waiting for the other
to be on the same page.
i'll wait for you.
not like a hopeless romeo,
and definitely not like a juliet.
i'll wait for you.
even if it takes us
volumes,
sequels,
prequels,
and even a different author,
for us to meet.

F
A
  L
   L
    I
    N
     G

Goes the boy
Who thought he was in infallible
He always rejects the blame

F
A
L
L
I
N
G

Goes the girl
Who thought her heart was guarded
But whenever she heard his name

The boy was falling,
and slowly failing
With his naive mind
And nonchalant heart
He hopes for the best
But expects the worst
And lets things be
So he wont have to do his part

The girl was falling,
and slowly hurting
With her aching knees buckling
And her strong spirit crumbling
She thought she could be
His lone savior, his lone queen

F a l l i n g
went the girl through the sky
The atmosphere cutting against her skin
And he set her on fire
As she warmed up to him
Foolish play with sparks
Until he ran out of matches
And left her alone
Flames burned out
Glowering embers in the dark

The last thing i remembered
Was falling asleep on you.
It started with us talking in bed,
You were still in your white cap and i was still in my shoes.
And vaguely but imprinted in my mind,
i recall you taking off your pullover,
Putting on a plain shirt,
My eyes, i tried to cover.
But to see your arms, your neck
Sculpted with veins,
I know you're ontological,
Despite your occasional back pains.
Then you slipped under the sheets next to me, stared into my eyes and said:
"To see you last before i close my eyes,
to see you first before the sunrise,
To hold you in my arms this way,
Tell me, is it with me will you stay?"
I moved my head onto his chest
Your breathing was steady, but loud and bold.
And on your heart, my hand did rest,
My breathing, did i surprisingly hold.
"With you, I'll be, forever and always,
To sleep to your voice like a lullaby,
To wake up to it like an alarm on days,
To be your warm hellos and good goodbyes."
I feel your chin nod against my head,
Your exhale makes a few hair strands fly.
Before we knew it, we fell asleep to each other,
And we didn't even have to try.

for the last time
let me be a child again
as i cry over the innocence
that i will lose
once these tears have dried

the fault
             in our stars,
the fault
                     in the sky
the fault in the way
                             you said

'i love you' and *'goodbye'

whenever i feel down, i look on to my favorite things:

angels
books
chocolate
dogs
environment
flowers
guitar
h­ugs
ivory
juice
kisses
love
mercy
nirvana
oasis
pizza
queens
rock­s
sweaters
tea
_
vivaldi
wonderland
x-men
yogurt
zebras

but i'm missing
u

you were like a library
filled with stories
bounded in different dimensions
you were begging to be visited
by many different people
eating more experiences
as you sat there with a stare
the curious girl that you are
never really understood
what really happens in the real world, far from the books
you haven't lived for too long
to know that authors just write
to escape the harsh reality

don't tell me
there are other
fish in the sea

when you're
the entire ocean
to me

what had happened
what we made
may be compared to a fishtail braid

the situation
the mess we made
may be likened to a fishtail braid

just as it takes the braid a few minutes
this "love" we had took a few years
woven slowly, outcome dainty
despite the flinches and the fears

just as beautiful the braid is
our "love" was magnificent
oh! the beauty! with sorrow i'll miss
never desired for it to end

and then it happened; then you stopped
the fragile masterpiece, the work of art
slowly, the plait became undone;
messy. ugly was the result

i, the fog that fades
you, last farewell bade
us, the ruined fishtail braid

Reaching my third year in college and still remembering the past easily really means that time spares no one or no memory. We could all grow out of our old skins to realize that our new shells are just as hollow as ever, deeming hopeless in life and its travesty. Nevertheless,  that's what makes us so human, bleeding out our murderous thoughts and spilling it onto paper. The feeling of wanting to empty yourself to be a coreless vessel again, void of any emotions, unreadable to a living soul. Some of us get there faster with a pen, or even a blade, each of us digging deeper to our own little numb world, to ease the pain of conflict within or to put out the flames that are thirsty for oxygen, until the very wicker within us crumbles to dust. Back to where we started off. Fine as the dirt beneath our feet with no sign of life and no capsule of memory.