the moment you touch that
xylophone
i feel your feelings become
xerox of mine

xoxo love

the moment you touch that
xylophone
i feel your feelings become
xerox of mine

xoxo love

where are thou romeo
why are you not here
when will you come back
my love
my knight
waiting
wishing
if this is the
will
we will
win

xo

i  miss you
very much
very often
very frequently
it will never
vanish or even
vaporize
it will just
volumize
more and more
this is
voluntary
i surrender my
vulnerability
coz this love is
visible
this will be
viral
vocal
******
vital
vivacious
viable
even if just for now
it is just
virtual

xo

They say her heart
Is a quiet place where
Nothingness rules,
There exist a vaccume,
Or perhaps  
a mere void...
What they don't know is
that the quiet places
speak louder
if you slow down enough
to listen...

It's true,
Love has the uncanny ability
to cast spells
so I made sure
that It's not my mind
Playing tricks on me
But still
when I traveled
into those fathomless eyes,
I find myself
In the middle of an ocean
like a helpless boat
Caught in a magical whirlpool
and now I am
Sinking fast...

I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. But no, I am no comet. I am just a girl — all sunset eyes and gasoline. All dust grain and stale cigarettes. Shaky lips and broken mugs. Broken matches. Scissors running over my skin. Is it so bad then — wishing for my bones to finally break this time?

I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them, so save my poems and all my tales. Save me the apologies I cannot say. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.

"It's not enough."

"No, it's not. It's okay."

Save me the apologies I cannot say.

And once more, I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. And this time, darling, there is no way to survive the fall.

We don't need the perfect words or metphors
If we truly care for someone;
We don't need them
-Describing
how they feel...
all we need to know
is to see,
if our heart
skips a beat
or two
when they are
- Typing...

My hands still remember the quiet aching of these wounds — too deep and wide for stitches and shaky hands. And so, I never learned to unpack my grief. It still is in a suitcase with December dusks and dreary summers — shut in secret library walls. I never learned to unpack my grief because I'm terrified that when I do, it'll be way too messy to place it back where it belongs.


Some things, we never tell ourselves out loud.

And then you woke up, you felt the soft drip of sweat on your furrowed brow. Trailing down your face in thin streams. Your clothes were soaked, and your bed lay damp. Your breathing was heavy as your forlorn gaze drifted off into the night sky.

And then you woke up, you felt the fright from a previous dream cling to your mind, dulling your senses. Cloaking your ears from all previous sounds that might’ve existed. Your hands lay there trembling, uncontrollable in every way, messy hair in all directions.

And as you lay there breathing, you woke up. The erratic thumping of your heart, beating loud into the night. A soft wail from your mouth, encircling the terrible symphony of despair. Grating thoughts, that never seem to go away. It won’t stop, it won't go away . . .

And then you woke up