Their smile was 6:03 am.

Jarring, mostly, like an alarm set at the wrong time. But comforting when you’re looking for it, when it’s the one thing you need to bring yourself back.

You never know when you’ll wake up with her hair just brushing against your fingers,
the steady rise and fall of her chest accompanied by the light from a laptop playing a movie you know word for word.

Their smile will be the last thing your bleary eyes focus on after a night of subsisting on energy drinks and the thrill of the essay you submitted 30 seconds before the deadline.

You wonder where you are in his arms, if you’re only second place in her heart. Your gaze shifts between him smiling down at you and the neon green alarm clock on your bedside table.

It’s 6:04 am. The sun winks through the blinds. You roll out of bed like clockwork. They grasp your hand before you could get away, kiss your wrist the way they do every Thursday morning, and offer to cook you breakfast.

the lines by her eyes read how she parted the red sea.
her fingertips rub your scalp like she’s writing a testament to every thursday night in your studio apartment.
her voice at 5:54AM will bring you to your knees faster than any choir medley could.
she will ask you to dinner over text, and you will tattoo it on the inside of your eyelids,
skin bleeding,
but every dream has a home inside your head,
a prophecy set in your bedsheets.

you were never quite a righteous woman,
but you’d get baptized in her bathtub,
for there is no deity perfect enough nor cruel enough
to speak her into existence.

The sunlight winks from behind the umbrella of leaves and mangoes overhead. It tickles your cheekbones like the first, second, thirtieth good morning kiss. Your sandals are worn. A woven basket rests heavy on your hip, in your hands.

Your fingers, slender and worn by the earth, trace the contours of my face the way they search for meaning in a dictionary. Gravity. We inch closer. Have you always had a widow’s peak? Your hand finds it rightful place over my heart. I kiss you for the thirty-first time today. You taste of plantains and milk. You smell of sweat and the sun. My hand relishes in the traces of heat on your cheek.

One mango drops from your possession. Unripe, but soon to be opened up and worshipped as it is meant to be. Your fingers grasp the yellowing heart and press it against my lips. I rest against the trunk and sink my teeth into it. Liquid sunrise trickles down your wrist onto my blouse. The leaves create shadow puppets on the ground, the story of two young fools swaying in the shade of a tree.

I walk with you
with only the streetlights
as our chaperones.
My pace slows down,
trying to stretch this
10-minute walk
for 10 minutes more.

Your voice is steady,
but I hear how it cracks
like the ripples on a lake.
I pray to the stars
that the tears in your eyes
are from the smog.

We walk on the side of the street,
arguing over who gets to guard the other
because we know we'll both
walk to the middle of the road
at one point or another.
I win
and push you closer to the side,
feeling your hand in mine.

We reach the gate.
I make you promise
that you won't talk to strangers,
that you won't walk by yourself.
Our pinkies link,
and I feel five years old.

You go home.
I pray once more
for more time by your side,
but you have already crossed the road.
I change my prayer for patience
until I can make you mine.

Please do not hate me
when I fail to say hello.
I am still learning
how to interact with you
without resorting to
my usual, self-deprecating humour.

If there comes a day
when you are finally fed up
with my emotional instability,
please, for the love of God,
let me know.
I do not want to have to think
that everything is okay.
I am already blind enough.

You always kiss me
and tell me that you're fine
with everything I do.
I do not want that all the time.
I do not want to be spoiled,
indolent,
unaware.

I want to grow with you.
I know you are not the answer
to my nail-biting anxiety,
but you are my pillar,
my brown-eyed support system.
I do not want to have to
give you my stress.
I am happy enough
knowing you're still there
willingly.

Fall in love with yourself.

Learn how to be infatuated
with the veins in your hands
and the stretchmarks on your tummy.
Make your own heart race
as you whisper those
three words,
eight letters
to yourself
over and over again.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

And mean it.

If you can learn how to
profess your undying love
to the naked, scared figure
in the mirror,
you can learn how to
daydream about a future
where you
and that person
are finally happy.

If you can give
a piece of your heart
to that stranger on the bus,
why can't you give everything
back to yourself?

You,
who picked your broken self up
after dropping to your knees
one too many times.

You,
who dragged your ***
to the toilet
after drinking the night away
(even though you promised
that you wouldn't do it again).

You,*
who wasn't always there,
but tried to make it up to yourself
by covering your wounds
with purple plasters
and starlight.

Because when people
turn out their pockets
with no spare love
to hand to you,
you will stuff your hands into yours
and give them some of your own
without ever running out of supply.

I wish you would realize
what you can still become.
You are here because
the universe willed the atoms
to rearrange themselves
to become *you
and no one else.

You are a crashing orchestra,
a breath of fresh air.
You are decades upon decades upon decades
of destruction and reconstruction
rolled into a tiny voice
and a single choice.
You are much too complex
to be contained in a box.
*You are much too full
of love to share,
but you never keep any of it
for yourself.