they all say:
don’t take what you don’t need.

feet on the pavement,
ice cream in one hand, a balloon in the other –
his mind’s too preoccupied with
longing for baseless freedom and perhaps
he neglects the melting semi-liquid
losing its vibrancy.

some nights he tries to erase
the parallel lines drawn between
reality and reveries,
piecing lifeless syllables together
to paint a picture of her blurred finesse
which he barely recalls.

he’s inhaling the thin sheet of fog
surrounding his sepia recollections
of a short span of time-
without being certain of the identity of
the defined silhouette hiding beneath
layers of ataraxia.

the harsh fumes trace crimson paths
against bare skin as he chokes,
questioning if she was poison,
or a monstrosity from within.

once a daydream,
her : venom in his veins.

i stayed up last night to the accompaniment

of solitude and quietude – the mere

traces of your presence

fading along with the sound of raindrops.


i pondered about the existence

of foolish words –

we, us, love,

and there was nothing more apt

to picture our foolish thoughts

amongst the reveries of pastel pink skies.


nothing besides bittersweet stupidity.


the entire notion of how we could’ve

been taking polaroids of bright hues –

if only.


if only we had been blessed with the

simplicity of raw parallel lines carved

against rotting wooden tables.


if only we had been moored to

our first impressions –

cold and unworthy.


but i had to admit,

as the thin sheet of paper slit

fragile flakes of skin –


perhaps i wasn’t sure of how to

treasure and clutch onto things.


or i’d rather choose to believe

that the angles of my fingers

weren’t to your liking,

and the gaps between these helpless

pieces of skin and bone were too small –


too weak, to form a taut yet sturdy

support for your soul,

greedy for flight.

he remembers the echoes,
the cries
within the darkness of
the cluttered flat –
the sound of newspaper against walls,
and bare palms against stained tiles.

and the muffled melodies
formed by the cerulean
bubbles leaving one’s dry lips –

flakes of dry skin falling off
her calloused fingers as he
held her hand –

and the sound of an
injection, a transparent liquid
****** into her veins –

leaving her to question
the price of happiness against
the facades of one’s financial state-

for thin sheets of paper reeking of
sweat and wine never
sufficed to anchor her thoughts.

they were never sufficiently strong
to cause her to gravitate towards
sanity, and stability in the darkest
nights.

perhaps fragments are easier to maintain?

patching up, trying to make up for the gaping hole within my soul, its arduous.

i found more holes, more empty spots in the crevices of my sanity, confidence and abilities.

i found out what i needed to work on, but i left my words behind

the utterances that used to echo in my head to spur me forward.

but this led to them shattering into fragments, falling onto my bare feet, piercing bare skin.

yet i found that these pieces didn’t always fit, involving the need to severe some portions off.

i found what i should work after, and along the way i’m picking up the pieces.

and most of the time, i'm just being foolish.

i noticed that i largely overestimate myself.

but reaching a point where it get overwhelming, i shy back into the comfort of a damp, crumbling cardboard box.

i like to explore things, snuggling up against the warmth of cotton knit sweaters.

theory:

1 // don't fall in love with the girl who has grey eyes reminding you of fragmented moonlight and of fluttering high tide against a silver shore.

2 // don't fall in love with the way she tucks her hair behind her ear just so she can appreciate the way your voice falls like ethereal windchimes over her trembling heart.

3 // don't buy her flowers; she'll keep them even though they've wilted.

4 // don't tell her she's beautiful; she'll spend hours trying to find her name in its definitions within every dictionary she can get her hands on.

5 // fold her paperplanes and watch her fly them off the tops of skyscrapers but don't allow her to follow where flight fails her.

6 // trace your name over her skin only with your lips, because it will be more permanent than ink.

7 // but don't fall in love with the girl who has a shattered smile, she'll be here one moment and gone with the next monsoon.

with parallel lines across her forearm
she smiled at the constellations,

he used to speak with soft tones,
every line which slipped through his dry lips
incoherent pieces meant to be left
separated.

burnt paper and crumpled promises,
they weren’t parallel lines
with the fortune of an interchange.

yet they both learnt lessons,
severing memories from empty souls;
trembling backs barely in contact,
her choice of route the converse of his.

love is often said to be the antithesis of selfishness-
and she could only wonder if
it was once humane
to break one’s wings.

(j.y.t)