every mountain has stories to tell
they've been watching for so many years
seeing every climber that fell
hearing screams with rock face ears

every river knows of the pain
pushing it away into collective bays
washing every hurtful stain
lives are turned to red bank clay

every sun ray does it's job
warming hearts with just one glance
making our chests beat and throb
letting us know we still have a chance

no one looks at me
like you do
no one takes my fingertips
and slips them between lips
to lick off my essence

no one knows me
like you do
no one takes me inside them
like a simple hymn
simply undressed

no one touches me
like you do
no one ever wanted to know me
no matter how I sat simply
but you do

no one wanted to know me
until you undressed me
now it simply comes down to
two words
*I Do

but sayang,
we ain't reading love story,
because life isn't just bout ending-happy,

we ain't reading fictional characters,
because today we are writing our own chapters.

so i ain't coming back,
ain't running back,
ain't looking back,

but i am here trying to smoke my last cigarette,
and how days went by that 'you're my champion' rosette,

because sayang,*
the smoke itself can't prevail the lust to miss you,
even i am indulging myself;
deeper every time my thoughts turn residue.

When you like someone everything changes, doesn't it?
It's as if the rules don't apply.
Your turn offs fade away and you don't quite understand why.
You start to notice the little things,
Like the way they their eyes squint when they smile.
Or how their hair is always a mess,
Or how beautiful their awkward laugh is.
You see the best in them when everyone else sees the worst.
You look at them with that lust, a desire,
A beating in your heart screaming kiss me.
But until that happens all you can think about is how they're going to taste on your lips,
How your sheets are going to smell once they've left,
And how your heart is gonna skip a beat every time he says your name.
Some would call it an infatuation,
I'd just call it a crush.

there are no more metaphors,
no more things
to compare you to,
no more clichés
and used up lines of poetry.
I could write novels
about your eyes
and how they are like fire,
sonnets about your hair
and how it moves in the wind,
how it feels in my face,
what it did to my heart when
you nervously played with it.
I could write sheets of music
and try to emulate the sound
of your voice
early in the afternoon
or at night over the telephone.
but the world will run out of ink
before I'll be able to describe you,
and Shakespeare himself
could not write someone
like you.

the great love poems
are the ones
about love that's
unrequited, or
impossible.
without complications,
the dust simply
settles.
people get used to love
and it becomes a habit,
it remains but sometimes
they'll forget it's still there.
and the poets, they write
about what they'll never have,
and perhaps there is beauty in that,
in the literature of
unending desperation,
but by now I've come
to realise that most poets'd
gladly die for a chance
to write bad poetry
and the habit of
a lifetime.