when the outline
of your lips
brushed against
mine,

it molded perfectly
like its sole purpose
was to be with each other.

but when i was left
with nothing but the cold
and harsh breeze of november,

your kiss left me
writhing in pain,
bruises marked my skin,
a gamut of unfortunate events;

it was a
kiss from death.

the universe has a daft manner
of reminding me of
you.

your voice resembles the breeze
that blows during the ungodly hours
and i realize that
the mists and fogs
just want to deceive us with
empty promises
and fulfilling lies.

your eyes spoke of the way
the moon danced with the stars,
a secret affair with the sun.
they take in every detail;
from the freckles
that adorned my face
to the scars
that still crept into my heart.

your hands clasped onto the meteors
but you were too unforgiving
and the galaxies sent you away from me
to scatter along the heavenly bodies
and await for rebirth.

december twenty-seven,
your name still rings
from the atrophy
you had bestowed upon me.

how reckless,
the way i love with
trembling fingers
guiding you to every
isolated destinations
withering through every touch.

i could not speak,

for your eyes
spoke of the
inaudible string of utterance
i could not quite decipher.

december twenty-seven
how forlorn,
the way you left me
without an explanation.

you told me
love was a capricious thing
that could only hurt
those who beseech for more
than what they ought to have.

and then
i saw you in the arms
of another.

i am
a confusing person.

i may
love things
that i hate;

i may
hate things
that i love.

sometimes
i adore the sun setting
and i close my eyes
as the sun drapes itself
with dust and memories.

then
i despise the way
the sun rises
with false anticipation
for children chasing them,
desiring to touch
even a glint of gold
and sunlight.

but i try not to love
the way your crooked smile
makes everything look
endearing.

because
i am afraid
that i will soon learn
to hate it.

i do not wear
heartbreak well.

i dress it
in plaid skirts
and loose shirts
under
cheap make-up.

i keep it
hidden in between
the pages
of a horror story
that you showed
abhorrence for.

i write it
in forms of sonnets
that overcome the
acrimonious ways
your words found themselves
tangled with mine.

i say it
in jumbled thoughts
and incoherent murmurs
that clouds memories
of warmth and sunlight.

forsooth,
heartbreak
does not suit me.

the warm wind
of the
fourth of july
rested on the
arch of your back
after a
precarious tempest.

the cicadas
cried,
so did you.

the falling leaves
rustling,
brushing the
wind;

i finally
felt
at ease.

you stand
beside
each other,
gazing
at the
inertness of
her body.

there is
beauty
in words unspoken

for their
silence
held the
entire universe.

it is the rattling of
the picture frames
that you kept hidden
in the back of your mind,
hanging against the
apricot wall;

it was the tremor
that shook every
glass windows
of your body;

the distant knocks
of strangers
you met in your
past life;

it will hurt you
but you still relish
on the feeling of compunction
seeping onto
your delicate bones;

it will come unexpected,
meeting you at every rendezvous

and you welcome it
with warmth and
joie de vivre.