there is no other way than to describe him through his height.
he’s identifiable through his tall figure, standing above all
all eyes on him.
he has attracted all including her,
her eyes diverting to him any minute they can.
her dark pupils choose to muse at him, even when she chooses not to.
he was irresistible, that was without a doubt;
can you really blame her?

he carefully traced his brush along the canvas,
its stem daring to fall from his fingertips.
his strokes were gentle, and when he mixes his colors he made sure it was the right one.
his splatters were all around the corners
but he’d go back to fix them.
he gently brushed his finger across her cheek,
his fingers weak, threatening to fall.
his touch was serene, resisting the temptation to scar her again.
the times he would make a mistake were uncountable,
but he’d always come back with an apology.
neither were perfect, and at the end of the day
his artwork was the one he loved more.

day by day, my fondness for him grows and grows.
i’d catch myself looking at him more, paying attention at every little thing he does.
i’ve gotten over him, the other boy.
he’s grown useless and left a hole in my heart.
it’s not just me who’s catching feelings for him;
but her, too.
and at first, we talk about him because we both adore him.
and now, when she’s grown closer to him,
i suddenly hope her feelings will go away
and that they don’t end up being together.

possibilities of her liking him the same way i do.
possibilities of him liking her back.
possibilities of him never noticing me—ever.
possibilities of me getting hurt again, like i always do.

i admire your features day to day from afar, noticing every speckle that would add or go by.
i listen to the way you speak to others, how you’d put your words together.
your laughter is like a lullaby i'd love to fall asleep to every night.
it’s so hard to let you know how much affection i have for you.
i guess for now i’ll just love you from afar.

take them while you have them.
they can sit right in front of your eyes,
or they can be as far as a thousand miles right behind you.
they’re not hard to find, but once you do, they’re a rarity.
to speak or not to speak.
to close the gap or to not.
take them while you have them
before they slip from your reach.

him, the one with lengths of broken black hair.
him, the one whose smile ever barely arrives.
him, the one whose feelings are hidden deep within.
there wasn’t a conversation we’ve had together;
not even one
and yet when we are in the same room,
and we are breathing the same air,
and our eyes are driving around together,
i am reminded of why i like him.
and how he manages to make my heart go pitter patter,
but at the same time break it.

it’s the way you catch my eyes when i look at yours.
it’s how your eyes bore into the back of my head without my knowing.
how you’ll be behind me, standing there as your presence grows.
though not a word you’ve spoken to me,
the drumming of my heart grows louder and stronger every time you pass.
no big gestures were needed for me to fall more and more for you.
all i needed and ever wanted was to have you near me;
not touching me, not kissing me with your soft lips,
not telling me romantic sayings,
but just there.

****** … oh, ******.
a precocious young child.
fourteen years of age, regularly chasing field boys.
plaid skirt waving; red braids swinging.
not a care in the world.
up until his arrival, you’ve been … in your own world, minding nothing.
he caught your attention, as you caught his.
it was a sin.
yet a sin worth doing.
thirty years of a crack in between.
neither parties cared.
the only thing that mattered?
your living, breathing curiosity;
and thus, your liking for him.

dreams are weird. they’re like experiences that you think are true, but are not.
dreams are barely lucid. there are bits and pieces you can remember, and then you can’t.
dreams are perspective changers. you can no longer see the people around you the same way again—
not if they contribute to a disturbing dream you had.
dreams are painful. if you fall in it, you fall in real life.
it’s an out-of-body experience.
i hope to have better dreams;
or dream no more.

her medium was a bucket of paint
brushes sprawled all over her plastic-covered floor.
her spinning chair would be splattered with reds and blues,
and her face would be purple.
his medium was his grandfather’s camera
a roll of film ready to be used.
it was old, yes, but he swore the photos taken would never age.
they had their own definition of art.
they used different instruments.
the way they perceived the world was different.
but if there was one thing they had in common
it was that they had fallen deeply in love with each other.

“sweet, you can’t ignore this fact.
there isn’t an enough amount for us to tell you how much of the truth exists.”
“but i still have hope.
i have hope for someone who i know will never be mine —
but i have hope.”
“don’t.
for your heart will shatter.
he is here.
he will not break your heart.
do not deny his love for you.”

you can’t blame the way he looks at her.
the way his eyes trail from the roots of her raven hair,
to the very strands,
down to the tip of her sculptured nose,
inching the corners of her pitch black eyes.
her lips were pink like watermelon,
and so were her cheeks when she sees him.
she was like art to him,
and he loved every bit of her.

they smiled, they laughed.
the more i saw them together,
the more i understood
how the chemistry they had were undeniable —
it was like no other.
they stared at each other like they were art.
they talked and talked, words escaping their mouths like the world was to end.
their world only revolved around each other.
they felt alone, like they were the only ones —
nothing could break the barrier.
because he completed her half, as she completed his.

it’s when your mind wanders off elsewhere.
your eyes roll to the back of your head, every sight blurry.
the only color you can see is white —
or black.
you have lost all control of your thoughts
and you can think of anything.
you want to escape
but you can’t.
and soon, you are crying for help.

human bodies intrigued her like no other.
how the limbs worked
how the precious gems connected to one another
how euphoria would hit her just by a single touch.
so she tried.
she tried
and she tried
and the outcome was nothing like she expected.
disappointed was to say the least
in pain was to say the most.
liking it not one bit.
it hurt.
but at the same time, it felt good.
all she knew was that she would never,
not once anymore in her life,
would she be curious of his human anatomy.

there was nothing more she liked
than the sting of peppermint tea
electrocuting her mouth.
it was the most unpleasant,
yet the sensation it gave her
was most magnifying.
nothing like earl grey
or jasmine
or a normal one with honey.
it’s what he liked most about her —
that when the taste of peppermint
entered his mouth,
he could feel her tongue against his.

“smile,” she said.
“do a leap,” she said.
the flash didn’t once blind
the pupils that contained sorrow,
for she knew the polaroids
were to be burned in the fireplace
by Christmas.
and yet no splash of filter
could ever hide her smile of no reality.

like the melting of cherries
and the dropping of dews,
it dripped little by little.
her waves crashing against
the sand that was her fabric.
she could not hide it,
for her denim no longer clung
onto her lower limbs.

warm like the heat from the coziness of your presence,
serving as a blanket in the cold winter breeze.
cuddled up with you,
wrapped in your favorite fleece blanket,
snuggled against the fireplace.
hot mugs cupped in my hands,
a flavorful scent of bitter tea steaming off the old ceramic.
in this very night, all i needed was right beside me.
i needn’t look far.
all i have to do is rest my head against your chest, and i’m home.

i love you like a painter loves his brushes.
how he’d always be careful with them,
taking his time to make his work perfect.
i love you like a photographer loves his camera.
how he’d always bring it around,
wanting to capture every perfect moment.
i love you like a writer loves his typewriter.
how the heavy push of the keys
are what bring him joy —
for he knew how beautiful the outcome would be.
i love you like i love … you.
how you’re always on my mind,
how you never leave my side,
how you love me too —
almost like love loves itself.

a propensity for death.
a propensity for love.
a propensity for violence.
all of which connect to one another
without anyone noticing.
chaos brings death —
chaos brings love —
chaos comes from violence.
behaviors unpredictable,
having come from a certain purpose.

you stay in my dreams, day and night.
you keep me awake during ungodly hours
when, supposedly, i am sleeping.
you walk along in my lucid dreams,
and i feel more awake than ever.
you leave traces behind,
and when i see you again as a non abstract being,
you are oblivious.
i am kept haunted by your untouchable presence,
and it is slowly bringing my mind to death.

he sits unrequited.
he stays where one could see him,
but not where one would acknowledge him.
he stays in a circle,
existence and presence known by those close to him.
he stays unbothered.
acknowledged or not—
he remains there.

like the bits of coffee
i hold in my hand,
you leave a mark of bitterness —
a trace of warmth.

like the sugar i sprinkle
into my stained cup,
you create a tingling sense of sweetness —
a pinch of heartfelt sensation.

in the same stained cup i stare;
into the void drink sitting cold.
bland as a lack of emotion as there can be,
the coffee sits bitter with no taste.

the cubes of sugar stay in their packet
left untouched,
left unsaid.

stirs and stirs,
the coffee stayed tasteless,
the sugar stayed useless,
and my mouth stayed dry.

in that moment i never realised how one
was longing for the other—
like a pair waiting to be meshed.

the sweet entered the bitterness,
and soon,
sparks of flavor dissolved in what was once bland.

it was unthought of that something so dull
and something so wholesome
would create the perfect combination—a bittersweet faith of an uprising.

maybe the fault was mine. maybe i shouldn’t have done it in the first place. maybe it would’ve been better if i had let myself be.
perhaps i should have destined myself to be alone. perhaps i should have stayed quiet. perhaps i should have stopped fumbling with my fingers so much.
it came and went, but i wish it had went forever. i wish i hadn’t been infatuated with him. i wish he had never been infatuated with her. i wish i had let myself be.

they observed the world
like it was to end tomorrow.
from people
to plants
to kittens roaming the streets
to them.
them: feelingless boys.
boys of no observing nature..
passing by like unwanted pulp.
whispering about them like no end
only to have another observe them.

he was the sun that rose at five.
he was the one who resembled the fiery strokes.
he had a laugh that could shake the earth.
his voice boomed throughout the lands of daisies and primroses.
his constant jittering and moving kept me awake and aware as my eyes wandered over his confused movements.
his eyes wandered wherever like mine but was never to mine — to others.
his pupils flicked for a moment to mine and was suddenly, in a long second, long gone.

i could feel you everywhere i turn. from the scents from the flower shops to the fresh baguettes from the cafés. and when i wear your shirt it makes everything seem extra. you’re long and gone but your perfume and footsteps aren’t.

lacy dresses
and $79 kisses
and heels the length of the empire state
and brown lustful eyes,
she was the moon of his life.
sleek suits
and chapped .99 cent kisses
and shoes reflecting the neon lights
and blue yearning eyes,
he was the sun of her life.

“he was in love with you, my dear,
how could you not have seen that?
more than anything he wanted to be able
to touch you,
and kiss you,
and call him yours.”
the triplet of friends told
the young lady who wouldn’t believe.
“but why wouldn’t he tell me?
why had he not told me he loved me?”
frustration took over the lass
like a wolf unable to catch a sheep.
“i’m afraid that would be too late, my dear.
for the redamancy had become
of between him
and his best mate.”

had she known
it would be an experience of more than one
that she wouldn’t infatuate the boy
with the tall built
and common interests.
that she wouldn’t fall for someone
she knew wouldn’t do the same,
yet breaking the rules,
she brought pain to her own heart.

she started the way other silhouettes did;
clean, pure, a scratch out of sight.
she was a blank canvas with no watercolor
until she met him.
he provided her with every possible color,
from lavender, to rouge, to wine.
it was after countless of seconds
that he smeared azure on her.
garnet soon followed.
raven did not want to be left behind either.
what used to be a porcelain canvas
had now turned into a parade of colors
with holes and scratches in the fabric.

on days when the wind
dances ever so gracefully,
i think about how your
milk chocolate skin would feel
against my own honey skin;
and i would crave it.
i would crave every inch
of your cotton based skin,
your chapped watermelon lips,
and to have my fingers
fumbled in your fiery strands.
i crave for your careful touch,
yet i think of your cuffed grasp.