In the dark
The english roses
Number the stars
//
The infinite sea
(Of) the other normals
Falling into place
//
After we fell
Fifty shades darker
Ten tiny breaths
Four seconds to lose
//
On such a full sea
The echo maker
Decoded
The narrow road to the deep north
//
Farther away
Legends of literature
(Made) memories
(And) collected poems
//
The little prince
Burned
The beast
The year I met you
//
One hundred names
The ten-year nap
This is my life
//
Save me

Of all the people I’ve kissed, she was my favorite.

The first time we tried to kiss, it took us exactly 4 minutes before my lips landed on her teeth. We laughed for 5 seconds, immediately retreating to the 2-inch distance between our nostrils. That 20-second courage was all it took before I regretted ever giving away my first kiss to someone I barely knew. She didn’t flinch the second time I kissed her forehead, but she did let out the longest sigh I’ve heard in my life. When her hands reached for my neck, I knew we are losing ourselves in the moment and I had no plan of ever stopping. She was not the brick, she was not the window pane. That night, she was the universe. It was all skin, clothes, skin, skin, and mostly soul.

I wasn’t used to her scent sleeping next to me. I wasn’t used to her legs all tangled in mine. I couldn’t possibly sleep. But soon enough I understood – sleep wasn’t the most important thing in the world. It was losing sleep over late night conversations, confessions, and honesty hours. It was her talking about her passion too much she starts apologizing. It was trying to figure out our next step. It was the journey to discovering you piece by piece. It was never just about proximity. It was kissing her all night until her lower lip bled the sunrise. It was kissing her until her breath loses its rhythm. It was kissing her until the tears turned into pleas of “Don’t ever stop kissing me.” It was kissing her until someone knocks on the door. It was kissing her until all her fears hid under the bed again. It was kissing her until all my monsters settled in beside her ghosts.

It was kissing her.

You spill food all over you whenever we go on dinner dates.
You squint your eyes when you have been wearing your contacts for too long already.
You trip on surfaces that are obviously flat.
You drink juice that is way too sour for my tongue.
You like your water warm. Or lukewarm. Nope, you like it warm.
You think your works of art are not good enough.
You snore sometimes. Well, once.
You say “sorry” even when I say don’t apologize.
You can sleep at any given time, anywhere.
You love oatmeal with a burning passion.
You’re picky.
You do not like anything that is mainstream.
You get nervous a lot.

How can you call them flaws if I’m in love with them?

Imagine seeing me one day after 15 years of not talking to each other. It will be on a local coffee shop where they have the best matcha drink one can ever dream of. You are sitting on the farthest end of the room, with an art book in hand; earphones blasting indie electronic songs you have been listening to u purposely use earphones to let people leave you alone. You dive in the world of art. Breathing heavily, you gasp for some air. You lift your head up to take a sip of your drink, and right when you’re ready to read again, you get distracted of a familiar voice.

I’ll be wearing jeans and my favorite A Rocket to the Moon shirt I got from their last concert. Earphones blasting their songs. A book in my hand, a pen and some paper. You smile upon hearing I got the same drink as you, watch me sat down on the corner, immediately opening my book (carefully).

You will watch me for some time and realize it’s just creepy so you gather up all your things and your courage, come up to me and say hi. But you stop and settle in the table next to me. I see you and tears water my eyes. You choke on your bagel. I stand up, sit next to you and say hi. You see the book I’m reading. It’s your favorite Dr. Seuss book. You will give me a look and I’ll start laughing. I will try to stop to tell you “I told you I read one page everyday.”

After that conversation, we will stay in touch. Not just in words but with actions. We will rekindle the love I believe never died. It will be a rocky adventure, but we will make it. We will go on roadtrips, blasting old Passion Pit songs. We will fulfil every promise we made when we were still in college. We will visit every island there is to explore. We will travel. Together. We will grow.

One day, I will wake up with the smell of pancakes you’re cooking for me. I will eagerly get up, shower you with kisses before I brush my teeth, and ask you if we have orange juice for breakfast. You will laugh (oh, that heavenly sound) and kiss me, saying, “You never liked orange juice. That is not welcome in our home.” I will pull you close and tell you, “You called it home, not house. That’s something.”

Soon enough, I will see you with our four-year-old wearing a unicorn onesie like yours, reading to her the Dr. Seuss book you gave me when we started our pause. You will fall asleep faster than she does, she will try to wake you up, I will stop her. I will tuck her in and carry you back to our room. I will watch you, and try to wake you. You will snore for a second, pull me in and tell me it’s time for bed.

I will whisper words before cuddling you to sleep again: “It was a rocky start, love, but I want to believe that it will get better. I’m going to make sure I’ll still be there to see it. I actually am seeing it now. If one draws attention to our cracks, they will just see colors that glued this wonderful piece together. We started with hickeys and matching shirts, let us end up with a shared surname. Can I just end with this note: Loving you feels very close to flying. Tomorrow I will ask you to marry me, I hope you say you will.”

What if we let this love die and let it combust? Let it burn our souls and make the universe weep. What if we turn into dust? What if the love we thought was made from longing and craving becomes uneasy? I am terrified of all the possibilities.

I'm afraid for the person I will love after you. She will have to get used to my Freudian slips of your name on romantic dinner dates. She will read hints of you on my sad poems, even the happy ones I will write for her will carry your weight. She will cry the first night we make love, because the way I hold her will never be as perfect. She will sleep with a heavy heart knowing that the next day, she has to face your ghost again. She will wear my sweaters, your scent lingering on each thread stitching them together. She will deal with all my mess. She will answer all of my 2 am drunk calls. She will let me be drunk until I recover from you, she wishes. She will laugh a lot, I will make her laugh, yes, but not smile - her smiles will always be half-hearted. She will read books on my shelves; see your love letters tucked in ever so carefully in between the pages we both loved.

She will choke on the dust of our firsts and maybe have tears of joy because of our lasts. She will love versions of me I created after this destroyed me to my core. She will never know my childhood. She will try to take me in her arms when I relapse. She will carry my broken pieces, try to put them back together, and will just end up being broken, too. She will let me have the window seat. She will surprise me but will never get the same chest pains I had with you. She will take me to bridges, tunnels, buildings, and maybe supermarkets. She will just be the stop along the way because you will always be the destination. She will welcome me home with a hug, I might let out a sigh and a smile. She will settle for that because she knows you will always be my home.

She will go to museums with me just to see my eyes water with pride again. She will let me write about you, just so I can empty myself of the words I have kept for you, if ever you decided to come back. She will listen to playlists I made just to **** your voice in my head. She will try to fit my needs. She will let me cry, and tell her stories about you. It will break her but she will let me. She will try to replace you. She will try. Every single day. She will fail. Every single time.

It will be the worst. It will be unfair. It will be my 3 am regret while I shower with her, trying to scrub away the last time we did that together. It will be running away. It will be my destruction.

*I am afraid for the person I will (try to) love after you.

I have a theory.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Being fragile to the core that it shakes you to your bones. Being weak and standing up on your own just scares the hell out of you. Despite all these, you try to keep the one thing that keeps your weaknesses intact and in one place. It is hidden inside their throats and at the palm of their hands, at their neck and behind their ears. It is sitting in their lungs, begging for escape but longing for the hold. Flaunt and retire. Flaunt and retire.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. You started unbuttoning my ribs around you. Watched me try to untangle myself from your subtle embrace. Exposed my weakness, my fragile strings wrapped on your pinky finger, ready to release, ready to detonate. I unzipped your thighs wrapped around my waist. You left me alone with your scent. Watch me try to scrub away the heat you leave on my skin. See the buttons slowly falling on the bed we shared.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How I want to destroy anything that dared touch me and took a piece of my lonely. It is about open palms giving vague dislike. It is a table for two but only an empty seat stares at your eyes. It is feeling the awkward breaking that is within your fingertips but never seemed to be enough for preparing you for the fall. You finally wake up choosing to breathe but still flinching at the sound of something coming near. Your subtleties dance on her tongue's words. Soothing as they are, they're poison.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How being brave is nowhere near your grasping distance. You try, every single day you try. You try to always go for the long term but the universe decides what you get, right? And you're always left with dust, shadows, and empty bottles of what ifs. You're always left with the questions, the sitting alone, the cold coffee in the morning. You're left with the sad playlists  on your Spotify. You're left on your own. If you were in The Fault in our Stars book, that will be my always.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Fears. Trembling hands holding out cups of secrets. Awkwardness in every written letter on paper hidden under the pillow. Loneliness sitting next to old books bought on a favorite bookstore. Depression long gone but resurfaces every now and then. It's one of things that stayed. Self-hate. It is one thing you run towards to when things get rough and when doubts are heavier than anything you laid your hands on and tried to carry.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Of how I recently started loving myself and slowly drowning my hate in formaline. Of how I keep on repeating I never need the reassurance. Of how poems are all I need to feel like I can feel air inside my lungs again.

It is one thing to have a theory, and another to face it in practice.

Take me to cliffs, love. Push me off every single one of your cliffs. I am ready for the fall, no ropes around me, I will let my fear of heights swallow me whole. Is it still called fear if it takes me to the highest of highs with no need to scream?

Take me to oceans, love. To seas, lakes, rivers. Saltwater is healthy for the soul, love. If your tears allow you to quench the thirst to grow, I will let you wallow. I cannot swim but your love taught me that the deepest waters can only drown me if I let it. Drown me.

Take me to places, love. To roadtrips, car radio sing-alongs, sneaky hand-holding, and restaurant tables for two. Keep me company during campfires, uneasy dreaming, and watergun fights. I will build us a treehouse, overlooking all of that we wish to leave behind.

Take me anywhere you like, love. I am yours for the taking.