The situation doesn't seem to be
pleasant,
for we are both caught in crossroads
of unexpected events,
and I'll be the first to say so.
I admit that I've always dreamed
of the stars being in favor with me,
that I've always gazed at you
as if you are one of them,
and every dusk, until now,
I still stare at the sky and wish.
I wish to feel your presence---
your warm and reassuring presence
---that keeps the life in me
holding on,
that keeps the fire in me
going on,
but as I am limited by the shackles
of my own insecurities,
I will have met you at crossroads
and say, "It's fine, don't worry,"
while the fire inside
becomes not of passion
but of pain that leaves scars,
and I feel myself burning,
turning into ashes
one by one by my own
destructive tendencies.
I am burning,
dying,
but I think ignorance is bliss,
and I think you don't have
to know anything
other than these feelings
of romantic fantasies.
You could know,
but I guess you don't
have to feel the same,
because we could be friends,
still.
We could be...friends,
I guess?
I think, in hindsight,
what is left is nothing else
but bursts of awkwardness
brought upon my own
loneliness
because I am lonely...right?
I guess,
in hindsight,
what I'm left with is nothing else
but a state of precariousness,
crumbling from the vagueness
not of us
but of me, for I am unable
to make sense of this
uneasiness I feel every time
I think of you as a star
among the bright, night skies
thinking that you are actually
a star among the burning sky
that's gone long ago.
I guess,
by confessing,
I lose everything,
and that makes me lonely, right?
I think I am
feeling more than just a heavy heart
from the silence that ripped me
apart
among the lines of poetry
I expressed every single day
that will never seem to be part
of your memory.
I think I am
fearing for the day that all those lines
and desperate attempts
to feel romance are nothing
but time wasted on groundless fantasies
not even denting a fragment
of your memory.
I fear the day
where both of us wouldn't recognize
who I am
---the day where both of us
will meet on crossroads
and an inquiry will proceed
asking, "who are you,"
and the only words that will be
crawling out and reaching out
for logic and realization
among the troubled mind
with nothing else coming out
but optimistic hallucinations
are the uncertain words of,
"I can't remember."
It's not that I don't want to apologize
to you,
but I can't seem to apologize
to me
because all I ever thought about
is you,
and I thought that's enough
for me.