falling in love with you
is like a wolf
looking above the sky
silently watching the eagle
freely fly during the night,

despite knowing that us,
as a pair,
as "you and i",
will never be.

albeit unmatched
and paralleled,
it happens still.

we just fall in love accidentally.

i feel blue.

the empty void
managed to purloin
my color
only to scatter it
on the earth.

i feel blue, once again,
for i have forgotten
the flower’s color.

i feel blue,
sad and empty,

but i remember once more
a miracle
who came from heaven’s
sudden outburst of emotions:

you.

a blossom
tinged with one hue at a time,
who swallowed
every shade
cascading down
from the rose clouds.

you are one color,
and then the next,
but you’re also a riot
of all the hues in the spectrum.

and i no longer feel blue,
but yellow.
of sunshine and daisies.

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.

sing to me,
saccharine child of the moon.
a song of a lullaby
as sweet as your voice.

sing to me,
of a melody that will take me
high up the empyrean,
through the illimitable
cotton candy clouds;
where i am welcomed by
a dancing show of comets.

and by the memory of your voice
lulling me to cloud nine,
i shall tell the clusters of stars
all about you;

about you
who cried to the sky.

these blushed florets
weave daydreams
and love poems;

but in truth,
these blossoms
can be anything
you want them to be;

the magic only appears
when the heavenly body
calls them out
to celebrate
joy, sorrow, and love.

it’s the beauty of reason
that we give them

that makes a flower
a flower,

and a human,
triumphant.

you remind me of sunsets and hearths
that stretch on the line
where empyrean touches the earth.

the golden strokes with hints of red hues
blended with purples, crimsons, and daisies
reflect itself from the rhythmic
glowing collision of ocean waves
like sepia photographs.

as the last bright rays
fade into the night,
it rests a promise before it lifts
the blanket of velvet twilight.

from the horizon
you see the heaven articulating its thoughts,
“paradise is not where the sky meets the ocean,
it lies on your presence,”

i stay lost in you for a little longer.

to you who i loved, now still do, perhaps soared, although vulnerable;
to you who refines a faint heart into a sweet growing garland,
your name echoes my thoughts and overflows my heart.
now, shall you whisper mine in one’s ear—
then i’ll hear the voice of the ocean
that speaks fairy tales and juvenile dreams.

to you who i love, always have,
perhaps more than a thousand times.
tonight, as silent as the wind passing by,
the night unveils once more, the enemy of anger:
a love that is safely kept in the wonders of the deep forest.
still, who is ire to interfere with two entwined soulmates?

my dear, the confidante of the moon,
i hear the hymn that you gracefully sing.
though love is but a triumph, too pure and fine,
your lips speak to beg; may this love never seek a forlorn goodbye.

but i know, dearest soul—sweet defeats bitter,
and my immortal soul does not age,
but instead, indeed grows love;
a love between us two; that, shall remain.

what i would tell you about the posies
that gather around
when they overhear my voice
calling out your name,
none would say the same.

for them,
caroused near the streams
that few perennials are but discerned;
springtime only passes by,
and then they are gone.

but how are they able to suss as such?
when these rosebuds
unlatch themselves
only when you are here?