Miguel Soliman

Miguel Soliman Dec 2015

They say those who are awake at two or three in the morning are usually those who are in love or who are lonely. I have come to realize that there's a third kind, and that's being both of these two things at the same time. It's 2:03 in the morning and I'm missing you, so much that every inch of my being craves for you and my fingers itch to text you, all while telling me to don't even bother. My inability to sleep has caused me to start whispering what ifs to the ceiling, sounding crazy yet at the same time secure because it's your name that resounds. God, I wish I had the chance when it was given. I wish I could tell you how special you are but I also wish I can tell you to stop. Stop giving me short glimpses of ever having a life with you, but please don't make me stop thinking about it. I probably don't make sense because I'm half-sane and half-out of my mind, but I wish you do and at the same time, I hope you don't. I wish you knew how much I love you, but I also pray to the heavens above that you never find out.

People who are awake at two or three in the morning are usually those in love, lonely, or confused.

*I happen to be all three.

#love #poetry #confused #sadness #am #prose #morning #midnight #2

Miguel Soliman Dec 2015

Colors (I/?)

Describe the color blue without using the word blue.*

It is the color of her eyes as you talk to her at five in the morning, just before the sun rises up. It's the color of her skin, illuminated by the hues of the skies—pale, cold, and fragile yet all at the same time safe. It's the feeling of her fingers left untouched by someone whose hands could fit perfectly in hers like puzzle pieces. It's the pulse of her heart as you walk up in her front door while she acts like she isn't home. It's the color of the waves crashing inside her brain, a mind so engulfed by an ocean of thoughts it's difficult to sway along. It's the color of her body as she walks away from you, almost like drowning—the weight crushing her slowly and then, dead all at once. It's the color of her tears, as she realizes how awful it had to be to leave you when what you two had could've been something more but will never be.

#love #poetry #broken #blue #unrequited #colors #leaving #prose #describe #random

Miguel Soliman Nov 2015

Do Not Fall In Love With A Writer

Do not fall in love with a writer.

They make a work of art out of words so elegantly you get lost to the point of no return. They create spells and lay them on white-painted sheets of paper, chanting letters attached carefully your eyes become so dizzy with amusement. They weave strings upon strings of enticing poetry you poison yourself the moment you find yourself drinking to the last drop.

Do not fall in love with a writer.

They appear almost like angels, serene and calm, yet at the same time a guise of what you would deem as a form of destruction planned out in detail you do not notice a thing about the pain they will cause you. They will carve in your veins the essence of a prose about loving you (oh, the irony of it), and make sure you bleed the same words they first bit you with.

Do not fall in love with me.*

I will not think twice about writing the life I had when I'm with you. The crisp touch of your fingers with mine—the chapped nails and all that. The sweet singsong of your laugh echoing throughout the streets as we walked at half past five, anticipating the ray of the sun shining through to welcome another day. The scent of your breath as your lips danced slowly with mine. I will write all of these down, and you can never stop me. I will write and write and write about you, even if I run out of words to use, even if I grow tired of the sound of pen brushing paper or of fingers clacking keys; I will still continue to write about you.

I still have and perhaps I always will, even if now, you decided to leave me.

#love #heartbreak #poetry #fall #prose #writer

Miguel Soliman Nov 2015

I Wasn't Calling The Dead

they told me to stop calling the dead
as i whisper your name
inaudible, barely a whisper
i told them
i wasn't calling the dead—
i'm trying to bring it back to life.

they told me to stop calling the dead
almost like a prayer
i repeated your name
i told them
i wasn't calling the dead—
i'm doing myself a favor.

they told me to stop calling the dead
i mumble to myself
slowly as i fall asleep,
i told them
i wasn't calling the dead—
i was calling you.

---

(The dead were once alive; had a heart, had a soul.
*I wasn't calling the dead, because you never had one.)

#love #poetry #unrequited #freeform

Miguel Soliman Nov 2015

Did You Ever

Did you ever think of me at night,
or at the morning
as the sun and skies rise.

Did you ever lie in bed awake,
thinking about
the chances that we didn't take.

Did you ever try to write a verse,
of a love forgotten—
of a love that's cursed.

Did you ever wish for us to be,
more than this—
this future we cannot see.

Did you ever even cry,
when you turned back
and said goodbye.

#poetry

— The End —