To the West she looked
And there he was alone - but
"Soon," declared the girl.

We weave our souls with the everyday canon, but -
I know the depth of lives we've lived together
in the grooves of our palms
and the intricacy of our thoughts,
my sight.

Me and you -
Five thousand years and we're still here,
in each other all along -
just like Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi told us.

We are still discovering
whether time and space ever existed between us
and if it will cease to.

I can see how I thought it would always be mine.

It's -
My chocolate stain on the beige carpet,
The black hair shed and left on the bathroom wall,
How the fridge opens smelling like traces of Indonesian fried chicken,
My body curves stamped unto the bed mattress,
Lavender incense that first greets my entrance,
The shoe rack that is never big enough for all my shoes,
The box of nostalgia under my bed.

That is until I had to leave.

like *******'s paint splattering on canvas
like Warhol's Campbell soup in print
like Cunningham's democracy on stage

she loves him like that; she loves him like Art

I like it when things aren't said.

When things aren't said, assumption lingers thick in the air;
The way that it fogs my vision is the most perfect way I would like to see the world.

When things aren't said the rumbling in my stomach stops;
no one anticipates, no one waits, no one attacks, no one comes up with a comeback.

When things aren't said, nobody has the last word.

When things aren't said, I actually don't know what to do, which gives me an excuse to not do.  

When things aren't said, I find it quiet,
and the night finally comes to an end.

I discovered beauty in the morning light,
and in the incongruent lines of your smirk
which is facing sideways at the moment;
your head resting on my pillow.

The slow buzzing of the outside world waking up
is no threat to the solace that I found last night
in your arms before we went to bed;
I do not move away from them.

One cold and quick caress from the breeze of daybreak,
yet another that is warm and lingering from your fingertips
leave me undecided between pulling the sheets closer,
or loving you again,

and again,

and again,

and again.

The slight curvature of the edges on his eyes would say:
"I am the wave, the tornado, tsunami that will wipe your glass wall
clear from all the dust and mud that you've chosen to ***** it with."

And yet, I feel like his walls are still marked too
from all the days he spent wondering about love,
and Love.

And from all the days he gave his heart out to the words on his notebook paper
to talk about longing, arrivals,
and departures of the heart.

And from all the minutes he spent listening
to all my words - without clarity nor coherence of the concept which I was talking about -
Instead, he let me
blabber.

Now those doe-eyes.
They glimmer with the confidence
of clearing everyone's wall,
but before that,
perhaps I need to plant a seed that is the Self within him
so that he'll clean his first.