somebody once asked me what falling in love felt like.

so I said, Imagine coming home after a long day at work. You just got off the phone and your ears feel numb after almost an hour of your boss screaming endless insults. You climb up the stairs, stop at your door, grab your keys and just go inside. Once you've opened the door you're suddenly hit by the most amazing smell ever. You follow the delicious scent and when you get to the kitchen, there on that table, you see the best looking croissant ever. Its shell is golden brown, flaky, and it looks warm, and the butter is melting, hugging the croissant so tenderly, like a mother would hug her child.

the person laughed, that's funny she said you have a weird way of looking at love

a few beats of silence passed by. then shyly, she turned to me, fumbling with her words. she asks, what about falling out of love? what does it feel like?

i sigh it's like biting into the delicious, butter covered, golden brown croissant, only to find out it's not your favorite flavor.

we stay silent for a long time.

I love seeing you in colors.

You don't notice me at all. You've never noticed me. Heck, you probably don't know me. But I know you, and I know that I love seeing you in colors.

You were wearing yellow the first time I saw you. The sun was hot and shining in the sky, and you were leaning against the brick wall our school, your shirt standing out against the the dull brown background. I especially loved how the yellow complimented your green eyes, how it made them seem brighter, livelier.

When it rains, I find that you wear blue. Every single time. I imagine you are friends with the weather gods and coordinate with the rain so that you can wear something blue. It's endearing, seeing you fiddle the blue buttons of your blue shirt as you gaze outside, then softly closing your eyes as you listen to the pitter patter of the rain.

When someone from school died you didn't wear black. Instead, you wore red. More than half of the school wore black that day but you wore red. It made your skin shine, and your lips looked even more red. I heard someone ask why you wore red and you answered it was the dead's favorite color. You were always beautiful, especially inside, and I loved that.

You look so good in color. The world could go dark but I bet you'd shine. It doesn't matter what color you were wearing, it will always look good on you. To top it off, you were also kind, gentle, loving. You have a beautiful soul, so beautiful. Maybe that's why all colors look good on you, because they're reflecting your kind heart.

Soon, I found that it didn't matter to me what color you were wearing. Because out of all colors, the brightest and most beautiful was you.

My mom once told me there were four parts of a movie.

I asked her, is it the beginning, the body, the ******, and then the conclusion?

She shakes her head, no she said. It's the play, the pause, the rewind

That's only three I thought. I leaned closer as she explains to my eight year old brain what it meant.

The play is when the excitement first builds. It's the thickness of air around you, but still you run out of breath. She says. It's the beginning of the adventure, the beginning of everything.

She takes a breath. She presses the cigarette **** against her lips. She takes a sip from her wine glass.

The pause is where you reevaluate things a little. She begins. It's where something takes you away from your track, and it leaves you baffled, so you stop a little, digesting what went wrong.

She takes another drag from the cigarette.

The third one is the rewind. Her eyes turn a little glassy. It's deciding that the movie was good enough, that it's worth rewatching. That somehow, you can overlook the bad parts and rewind again, replay again, because to you it was that good.

Mom and I stayed silent for a long time. She kept sipping from her wine glass.

I swallow. You said there were four parts, I say.

She looks at me, and her eyes were filled with sorrow, pain. Anger.

The last part, she spits out, is the stop. It's deciding halfway through the replay that it simply won't work anymore. That it needs to end. That the bad things will always be present and cant be overlooked. That the excitement isn't worth it anymore.

She takes a deep breath. She stands and ruffles my hair. She kisses me goodnight. I close my eyes and listen to her heavy breathing fade through the lonely halls of our home.

Later that night, while I was in bed, I get the distinct notion that she wasn't talking about movies and their parts at all.

Lately, I've been finding myself lost in the land of dreams.

In my dreams, my happy place comes to life. The skies were always lilac. The seas were always calm, and the air was fresh, and the sun was bright and golden. In my dreams, the trees were vibrant greens, and the mountains wore pure white snow caps.

In my dreams, war is a myth. Peace is rampant, the flowers are lively, and the ground has never felt the drop of blood. A child's laugh would occasionally fill the air, and parents would laugh along too. Music was a common thing.

In my dreams, there are no imperfections. There are no things to remind me of the real world. The skies are lilac, the sun is gold, and the world is better.

But sometimes, the bombs get too loud, and the tanks get too close, and the gas creeps faster, chasing me through the broken streets of my once beautiful home.

Sometimes, a scream pierces my ears and my illusions shatter. I can hear parents screaming for their hollow children. I would look through my ragged curtains and gasp at the ****** ground. I would look up and find no golden sun and lilac skies. Instead I find dust and missiles.

I don't remember how my dreams came to reality. In fact, I don't remember much about my past life anymore. All I remember is one day, I woke up and saw the sun shining for once. The streets were quiet, and my mother was humming the old radio tune we used to play all the time. I could hear my brothers laughing, and my sister softly singing to herself.

Though I seem to recall how a woman screamed and suddenly everything was on fire. Explosions burning, hot and bright.

I can't be sure though. It all seems fuzzy, like a distant memory. But I'm in my happy place now.

There's no place I'd rather be.

familiar faces
and empty spaces
fill the silence
and the sadness
and the loneliness
of the gap between us

rogue glances
accidental touches
are all we have

it's as if we are miles
and miles
and miles away

but it's only a few inches between us

so close
yet still so far

so broken
but still so in love

Children are inclined to fear what they do not know. And as they (we) grow into adults, inclination turns into a program. It's simple: Don't know it? Then don't **** with it.

As an adult (teenager or whatever, adult. Period.), I am afraid of heights, but that seems like a rational or rather, a natural fear. Everyone's a little afraid of heights. But did you know that it's not the height im afraid of? Why?

Because I know how high a building is. I know that this building is fifty feet tall, I am certain that the building beside it is 30 feet tall. Height is something that I know, so why would I be afraid of something I know?

Do you really want to know what I'm afraid of?

Falling.

The uncertainty of the word "falling" gets to my head a lot. Falling into what? Falling out of what? What's falling? Who's falling? And the aftermath: Where will I land? Will somebody catch me? Is a rescue team waiting or will I become splattered like roadkill.

This is what I feel about love.

I do not know love. I've felt it, yes, from the gentle touches of my mother. From the somewhat friendly hugs from my brothers. From the casual touches shares between my friends and I. From the sometimes proud look I get from a hard to please father.

But I've never seen it.

You know how that saying goes right. "You gotta see this to believe it." How do you believe in something you haven't seen? How will you not feel fear in something you cannot see?

I know what you're thinking. "You can't see air, but are you scared of it?" Well, let me explain. Air can be produced in labs or packed in cans (don't think I haven't seen the news about China and air pollution). Air is blown into a balloon so that it can inflate. Air is blown so that dandelions can be free. Can love do that?

Getting to the point, I am afraid of love because I have not seen it on the people around me. I feel love from my mother's gentle touch but her eyes are empty, void, perpetually sad. I know she's seeking for a life outside the four corners of our home, but she's afraid to leave. I feel love in the somewhat friendly hugs of my brothers, but I see no compassion from the way they talk about the world, how callous they treat the women around them. I feel love in the casual touches I would share with my friends but I see no love in the way they lash out at me, their words cutting me carelessly, leaving me with jagged edges. I feel love in my father's sometimes proud looks, but I see no love in his heart, who without remorse ripped the family apart and set eyes for the nearest pretty young thing.

I only saw destruction, felt love but saw ruination. I feel, but I cannot see. And I am inclined to be afraid of the things I cannot see. Maybe this is why I like to destroy myself so much, because it's the only thing I've ever known.

Children are inclined to fear what they do not know. And as they (we) grow into adults, inclination turns into a program. It's simple: Don't know it? Then don't **** with it.

As an adult (teenager or whatever, adult. Period.), I am afraid of heights, but that seems like a rational or rather, a natural fear. Everyone's a little afraid of heights. But did you know that it's not the height im afraid off, it's the fall. Why?

Because I know how high a building is. I know that this building is fifty feet tall, I am certain that the building beside it is 30 feet tall. Height is something that I know, so why would I be afraid of something I know?

Do you really want to know what I'm afraid of?

Falling.

The uncertainty of the word "falling" gets to my head a lot. Falling into what? Falling out of what? What's falling? Who's falling? And the aftermath: Where will I land? Will somebody catch me? Is a rescue team waiting or will I become splattered like roadkill.

This is what I feel about love.

I do not know love. I've felt it, yes, from the gentle touches of my mother. From the somewhat friendly hugs from my brothers. From the casual touches shares between my friends and I. From the sometimes proud look I get from a hard to please father.

But I've never seen it.

You know how that saying goes right. "You gotta see this to believe it." How do you believe in something you haven't seen? How will you not feel fear in something you cannot see?

I know what you're thinking. "You can't see air, but are you scared of it?" Well, let me explain. Air can be produced in labs or packed in cans (don't think I haven't seen the news about China and air pollution). Air is blown into a balloon so that it can inflate. Air is blown so that dandelions can be free. Can love do that?

Getting to the point, I am afraid of love because I have not seen it on the people around me. I feel love from my mother's gentle touch but her eyes are empty, void, perpetually sad. I know she's seeking for a life outside the four corners of our home, but she's afraid to leave. I feel love in the somewhat friendly hugs of my brothers, but I see no compassion from the way they talk about the world, how callous they treat the women around them. I feel love in the casual touches I would share with my friends but I see no love in the way they lash out at me, their words cutting me carelessly, leaving me with jagged edges. I feel love in my father's sometimes proud looks, but I see no love in his heart, who without remorse ripped the family apart and set eyes for the nearest pretty young thing.

I only saw destruction, felt love but saw ruination. I feel, but I cannot see. And I am inclined to be afraid of the things I cannot see. Maybe this is why I like to destroy myself so much, because it's the only thing I've ever known.

if i were to continue living
the way i do now
bitter, cold, unforgiving
blind to help and love
deaf to the screaming
of my soul
then when i meet death
and fall to his clutches
and when i am stripped
of skin, of flesh, of material things
the world will see
my bones are rusted steel
my heart is melting ice
and everthing else
are hollowed rocks

*and time will come
when god will ask me
what i am, what i was
while i was alive
i would say
i was dying
i was already dying
i was always dying

if you want to love someone
love someone
who bleeds ink
and eats words

if you want to find true love
find it in a person
who cries poetry
and sleeps on stars

if you want to be loved
make sure to be loved by someone
who drowns in books
and is always alone

why?

because those who
bleed ink
eat words
cry poetry
sleep on stars
drown in books
and are lonely
know what love is
they've lived it
experienced it
gave it
a million times
in a world only they know

Children are inclined to fear what they do not know. And as they (we) grow into adults, inclination turns into a program. It's simple: Don't know it? Then don't **** with it.

As an adult (teenager or whatever, adult. Period.), I am afraid of heights, but that seems like a rational or rather, a natural fear. Everyone's a little afraid of heights. But did you know that it's not the height im afraid off, it's the fall. Why?

Because I know how high a building is. I know that this building is fifty feet tall, I am certain that the building beside it is 30 feet tall. Height is something that I know, so why would I be afraid of something I know?

Do you really want to know what I'm afraid of?

Falling.

The uncertainty of the word "falling" gets to my head a lot. Falling into what? Falling out of what? What's falling? Who's falling? And the aftermath: Where will I land? Will somebody catch me? Is a rescue team waiting or will I become splattered like roadkill.

This is what I feel about love.

I do not know love. I've felt it, yes, from the gentle touches of my mother. From the somewhat friendly hugs from my brothers. From the casual touches shares between my friends and I. From the sometimes proud look I get from a hard to please father.

But I've never seen it.

You know how that saying goes right. "You gotta see this to believe it." How do you believe in something you haven't seen? How will you not feel fear in something you cannot see?

I know what you're thinking. "You can't see air, but are you scared of it?" Well, let me explain. Air can be produced in labs or packed in cans (don't think I haven't seen the news about China and air pollution). Air is blown into a balloon so that it can inflate. Air is blown so that dandelions can be free. Can love do that?

Getting to the point, I am afraid of love because I have not seen it on the people around me. I feel love from my mother's gentle touch but her eyes are empty, void, perpetually sad. I know she's seeking for a life outside the four corners of our home, but she's afraid to leave. I feel love in the somewhat friendly hugs of my brothers, but I see no compassion from the way they talk about the world, how callous they treat the women around them. I feel love in the casual touches I would share with my friends but I see no love in the way they lash out at me, their words cutting me carelessly, leaving me with jagged edges. I feel love in my father's sometimes proud looks, but I see no love in his heart, who without remorse ripped the family apart and set eyes for the nearest pretty young thing.

I only saw destruction, felt love but saw ruination. I feel, but I cannot see. And I am inclined to be afraid of the things I cannot see. Maybe this is why I like to destroy myself so much, because it's the only thing I've ever known.

I fell in love with the way her eyes held all the secrets of the universe, and all the answers at the same time.
I fell in love with the way her words, softly spoken, released from her tongue, could bend and break without having to rhyme.
I fell in love with the way her hands, rough and calloused, writing endless poems and paradigms.
I fell in love with the way she is, with her ink stained hands and eyes that hold the secrets of the universe.
But she'll never be mine.

this is how I loved her
her words, her laughter, her sorrows, her pain
I made it all mine
this is how she loved me
broken, bleeding, jagged, destroyed
running out of time

you, my darling,
are the greediest person i know

you take and take
what i give and more
and it still isn't enough

it still wasn't enough

To love and to be loved are two different things.

For one, loving means hurting yourself.

And to be loved is to hurt someone without knowing.

people
do not settle
for the things that fade easily

you may think
that what i meant
were material things

but no
people
don't settle for
love
family
friendship
hope
faith

things that fade, eventually

*things that fade all the time

love isn't supposed to feel like a battlefield where you stand on different ends