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.