Somedays we are all the same: silent spectators of our own lost states.
Missing the exact pieces we were supposed to let go off, long ago!
Trying again, and then not trying, and trying again to reach at least somewhere.

Trying again and then not trying.
Somewhere, perhaps someday.

Do you really think I care?—The purple blanket of night
drops ever so regally, meticulous its stance
over every dark heart you've created onto this very vulnerable skin
every single time
scars hide, and so does light—Do you really think I pine - and only pine - always when you leave?

you don't see me.
it's as if I am hidden from you from behind a shroud
of distances, moments of past and deeper.
it's heavy in its mass I'd say because it keeps us far
it's thin and light in its appearance because it seems like there's nothing in-between
but we know
we see that we cannot see
we feel that we cannot feel anymore.

She craves for your smile and the look in your eyes,
while you think of someone and your head full of whys.
She hears the throb of your heart despite of great distance,
while you choose to keep silent and hide your presence.
She's quietly telling you that she listens and cares,
while you seek for someone's sweet stares.
She patiently waits for the time you will talk,
while you choose to give no words and just walk.
And she knows you will never notice the whisper of her heart,
not only because you are North and she is South—
it is because in you heart, she'll never have a part.

*Steph Dionisio, November 13, 2015

And all of a sudden
it doesn't matter anymore.

Where you are,
where you were
why must I care?

We were already separated
by those invisible barriers.
Bound to some unseen threads.

You to me, and I to you
were illusions.
Like characters from a novel
striving to meet between lines,
shocked
by an unhappy ending
occurring all of a sudden.

She was mad. A mad writer spitting up words, vomiting poems, and finding salvation in her rough scribblings. Her days and nights were normal for she wore a mask throughout. A facade for everyone.

"7 billion people, 14 billion faces", she wrote once.
"And you are the king of double-faced people. Most fake." he had replied.
"Oh no. I am a queen!" she had laughed...

She scribbles down everything in her diary, or her blog, or her mind. It is what helps her maintain her sanity. But at moments when you are far, like very very far, she just cannot hold it. I have seen her dying daily, and writing your name with her finger on her palm. I have seen her gasping for air on the most normal of occasions, as if her throat was choking with a word held in, her chest burning with a poem unsaid.

It was you she had ever wanted, always missed, blindly loved. It was you who made her a writer out of a normal, moderately-concerned human-being. You made her over-sensitive. You killed her!