What happened to the nights of preying upon the chances of what could I have said, what songs could I have told you to play on the stereo, what books could I have told you to read — the nights I tried so hard to save and keep and ripped away from the moribund seconds that lives in the far end of the intersection between two tangent lines?


Nights that had been like a Christmas present wrapped in your voice that floats from across the other side, a smile breaks wide upon hearing it—almost meets my receding hairline.

I think maybe the cherubs have carried me to your feet, to fill an empty ribcage with butterflies and moths and all the decaying caverns in my flesh because in my prayers, they altogether weeped.

And in these nights that were strewn from the strings of fate – crafted only for me – I think I hear my angels singing and crying and dancing



Oh, this must be it. This must be it. Maybe.
This have got me feeling. So maybe.


Here with me, you are the hero that shoos away the phantoms that were born out of my skull. There with you, I am the ballad that makes you dream as you sleep with your lights and stereo on with the music I insist you play.



Here with me, a memory of the static, of the silence that embraced two people. Nothing but a buzz that you could make a song out of, a strange delight that warps and ties a knot to my chest. Now that I think about it, even if you don't talk, it pays every word I ever heard.





I wish you sweet dreams now from the other side of the world.
I wish you sweet dreams for the nights that brought you down. I wish you a calm heart when the thunder roars and a field of lavender for when you feel worn out because you have been the magic that puts me to sleep, at ease, when all the nights have turned out like rough seas.