And each snowflake–
Distinct and different
Falls and is caught
In your thimbleweed-lashes
As it flutters against my cheek,
Against butterfly kisses,
In the Central Park.
And there we were
Nothing but frostbites
And mothers’ mittens
And childhood spirits.
Bells begin to ring,
Like the ones from
Years of yesterdays.
And what you did back then
Was let each snowflake–
Distinct and different,
Fall upon you
Like magic sprinkled on a dream.

You are in the cracks in the sidewalk
I dare not step upon
You are in the leaf ladened winds
I care to listen to
You are in the way I tie my shoes
Or the way I don't
You are in the lock and the key
I don't know which  
You are gone but you are here
And I don't know which

He and she;
they were love if they were anything.
High school sweethearts; but no typical thing.
You see; he loved her with every fiber of his being,
he loved her with such a passion you couldn't imagine.
He'd bear the weight of the world for her,
and wouldn't waiver even when his feet began to sink into the stars.
But you see;
she, she had walls and bars.
She wanted to love him;
because she saw the light in his eyes,
illuminating his very being.
Bright but blinding, was what he wasn't seeing.
Then He and she soon became three.
She was lost  in an onslaught of stress;
One night she decided to confess:
"I'm not sure if this is real; if this is me.
I need time away, time to be free."
With a sigh and a kiss;
he took the boy and let her be.
When he returned; she was there, her soul was free...
from the body left hanging in the willow tree.

I wish
To look at the waves of old memories
(Are they even mine?)
of brushing rough fingers against
misty hands―salty like sea foam
(Are they even mine?)
Or typewritten words
(Are they even mine?)
because I simply despise my own mark of pen
because ink stains this day
will never be as fascinating
as the way the sea makes your sky-speckled shirt
as dark and as deep as it is
forming waves against your stomach

Stop,
Ask myself
(Are they even mine?)

And sigh,
not heavily
nor curse myself,
with the words
I so carelessly throw around
like this
like the sea of letters
pulling me away now,

but whisper,
"That was beautiful."
(Were they even mine?)

We all perhaps know how Wendy waved at the night sky,
bid a goodbye as good as a farewell,
at the illusion of a pixie dust-flickered cloudscape
of a voyage setting sail
to dreams and fantasies stretching beyond time and infinitum.

And she was showered with so much
faith, trust and pixie dust,
quaint tiny love-stained lips
promises a kiss and sealed acorn, tight around her neck.
And the sparkle in the glances of her
lovely pair of blue crystal teals
manifest in the whereabouts of a star second to the right.

But the Big Ben struck half past childhood
and play pretend and silky nightgowns are long time over.
Innocence is robbed by a shadow
lurking in the premises of what could have been
for once the clicking of the keys
to the lock and latch of the gates of the yesteryears,
it could not be undone.

The hook of a deceiving treachery
robbed all the glow of a child’s pearl laced smile
and the mere belief of the existence of fairies and the magical mystical boy
who never grew up.
She once laced her hands with his,
past ephemeral and London night,
and straight on till morning.

The desires of her heart got lost in the sea of nowhere,
as it raced against the foolish time;
we all perhaps know how Wendy is never never return
to never Neverland.

Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.

He dips his feet.

There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.

He swims along.

And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.

He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.

Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.

*He has crossed the river.

If you are absurd
And you love it,
Then you would probably
Love this tale as well.

I love to be in the nostalgia
Of the bitter and blatant;
No cream, no milk,
Just the black swirls and whirls with rivulets of tears.

And postcards were scarce
And you play Ella Fitzgerald
And drink seven cups a day,
And no, honey, it’s totally fine.

Delve and dive in the nightmares
Of the past and the disgusting cheap latte,
And add tears instead of brown sugar;
It’s the best coffee you’ll ever have at two in the morning.

Explore the timid quiet night life;
Hear the billows of the gushes of the wind
And the orchestra of the grasshoppers
Within the blades of the knee-high grass.
And as the fairies and nymphets,
Dance under the umbrellas and mushrooms
And the star-clusters of constellations,
Walk past through the lane where lovers embrace,
And you, all alone, with no lover or so,
Just have to fall in love with whatever there is
To fall in love with.
The wax of Artemis, and the wane of Diana
Beams at you in static cinema-like spotlight;
The ghost of a girl with a battered heart
And the dew-damp earth and rain
On an empty 10pm cafè
And the scent of a purple paradox,
Oh, it’s death and so lively magic,
Fill the night.

Pick a petal,
And pick another one
And feel the stardusts coming into life.

You deafen yourself with the billows of your mind.
The infrared waves ebbing
that crash and bang against your brain corners,
leaving blotches and scraps and holes
of tattered exhaustment.

My dear, you delve and revel into dark waters
rivulets of teardrops and insanity
travel down through your nape
as if they are atoms that constitute
your whole existence.
Clashing with the demons and phenomenal apparitions
that reside within your internal gates of hell.

Hear the clang of brazen swords
of mind thoughts and spilled ink.
Hear them paralyze you from the mind
to the futile pinky finger of yours.
Dispersed souls and impenetrable
stringed quartets of words.

Love this.
Embrace this.

This room wherein you caged yourself
With detrimental insanity that sale past through
seas of thousand madmen’s minds.

This is your all.
This is what composes your all.

Greater than the universe that
your knowledge has managed to stretch its feet upon
and all the elements you ever know combined.
Greater than all those fed up imaginations
of your childhood.
See them with your eyes,
see them and bask in its beauty
that has its venom sink down
to the ivory crystal of your bones.

*This is your all.