inamorato,

i often think of you during the nights before i rest soothingly, while i listen to the music of the rain until i fall asleep—with you occupying my thoughts which keeps me at comfort despite the drizzling weather. i think of you when the morning sunlight kisses my skin and i wake. i think of you during the time between day and night, and the spaces between the seconds that pass by so quickly. and if someone asks me what love is, my mind will be filled with your name—because to me, you are what defines love.

if these sea of thoughts could swallow me whole, i would've drowned; if one was alone, but saved by grace and i am accompanied by you in this vessel of love to crusade against nightmares. you and i fill in the gaps of tied chains, but it somehow feels like we’re untangling the impossible. you’re too far to reach, yet you’re here. with me. now i love you even more, and think of you more.

there’s not much to say now, and i don’t expect you to, you know i wouldn’t love you any less. i’d think of you still. and when you’re ready to hear these thoughts, i’ll be home. i'll wait for you, only when you’re ready.



her.

some of the best men
in my life were women

the road to darkness
is a journey with a light switch

having uttered not a single word,
the flower is clearly heard.

With the first sign of rebirth
Came the gift of time, extended
In its renewal and revival, further
Offering the restoration of friendly relations
All done as an act of reconciliation between progress
As well as forgiveness asked of our mothers, everyday
Within such gifts intended for the common crowd
It is at the stroke of the halcyon hour
That we forget our sorrows and crumble like bricks
What is of this sad ending that we talk of, intentionally
That plagues the essence of the mind which is white as snow and trembling
Only cloudy days can show us the purity of ice
When the clouds do subside, the sweetness that preside
All talk is forced into stony silence under the dark night
Through the mad-sort of palace of time
Where there is a time to withdraw into the study of history
Ashes to ashes as well as fire to fire
Dwelling in a cold curlicle of a silent galvanized gate at a cemetery
Behind a rose garden, where the woodpeckers beak at the windowpane
Rusted beyond recognition broken into windy submission
Such things are built for no purpose and no future promise
Only to sustain posterity and labour
Not to make use of Earthly resources
An old man still waits for the rain
Saying that he is hiding behind the arras of an isolated house
Where the sepulchre is hidden under a rock tattered by zephyr
A string of creeper prostrate themselves, whimpering
That ostensibly grow, under the shadow of a thatched roof
Only to never be seen again in daylight
Of rebirth and redemption
Such is the creeper in the daylight
That lives in utter recluse and retreat

Let yourself go
with all the doubts and losing battles
there is no way we can win them all

the cost of learning
we will learn to fly again
when we fall.

we also cannot lift bodies that
do not want to be rescued;
never settle for less when you can settle for more.

take it slow with process
and process will come to you,
maybe even greater

~ ~~
Keys tipping
Under my fingers
Notes resounding
Around me
Playing,
Laying
Layer over layer
Of tones
Emitting
And drawing forth
The sighs that
Do not escape my mouth
And instead trace back
Down my tensed throat
Along my collar bones
Arms
Twisting around my wrists
And zipping at my finger tips.
My mind knows
And so my fingers follow.

And yet my mind also knows
It's searching.
Not for something missing
But
For something that could be there.
And yet it continues to progress,
Fingers relaying,
Notes sounding,
Fading.
Continuously

~~ ~

In the distance
And yet
Flowing through every medium
Surrounding me,
A voice flows alongside
These notes,
These feelings.
A voice that enriches
And pairs with the notes
That continue
To resound around me