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tragedies Mar 10
every night, i look up at the sky,
hoping, praying, for the stars to align.
every night, they look back at me,
their dying light, a shrouded mystery.
tragedies Aug 2018
already, the sand was
slipping from my hands.
and i realize, all we were
was an empty hourglass.
we had all the time in the world, but where did it go?
tragedies Jul 2018
The skin I wear does not feel the same,
Yet your touch still lingers, still stays.
I want to claw my skin out until it bleeds.
Maybe then, you would finally leave.
I wonder how a snake does it, to willingly shed a part of itself and live.
tragedies Oct 2017
you pushed me off the cliff,
and i swore from then on,
i'd be your greatest
what if.
10.30.16
tragedies Oct 2017
the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.
10.12.16
tragedies Oct 2017
Happy anniversary.

Can you believe
That it’s been a year?
I can still feel the first time,
Your hands danced on mine,
A soft presence, almost shy.
I could barely pay attention
To the film playing on television
Because there, right beside me,
A story was already unfolding,
One that was far more fascinating
Than any other mystery.

And it was.
Here we are, a year later,
The story continues to be
The most gruelling mystery
Of two people ceasing to be,
Of you & I never becoming we,
Instead, a strange, foreign word
To each other’s vocabulary.
I thought we both saw ourselves
In this picture perfect future:
Lying together on crumpled sheets,
Watching Sherlock on repeat,
Reading poetry and drinking coffee,
A state of being indescribably
Happy.

We were never meant to be that.
Only a manuscript tossed in the trash.
We loved too little, and bled too much,
Too proud to break the silence.
Too scared to end the sentence.
So let’s scrap the ending,
And go back to the beginning:

Happy anniversary.
10.14.17
tragedies Sep 2017
You are gentle.
              The whisper of a breeze
                      During a summer's eve.
              The slightest tremor
                      Of a broken melody.

Yet you still play the violin.
                                   Softly.
                                   Gently.
The strings moving along
               To your song.

This is your love laid bare,
And you hope it is enough
To show her you care,
               Loud enough to hear,
               Close enough to feel,
Because the strings are your lifeline,
And the music is your heartbeat.

And oh yes, it is enough for her.
Because there is nothing louder,
                             Nothing closer,
Than the soft & gentle song
               Of a lover.
— A prompt I wrote last May, inspired by Yoon Ji Hoo from Boys Over Flowers.
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