She sat there, beside the vintage window
Writing her heart, her eyes had that glow
To kiss the sun bright, her muscles curved right
To have a smile so bright, like a moon at night
Her hands – the Morpheus creation
They hugged right on the pen, she was God’s incarnation
Those eyes, wild like a fire, like a lion
Like chaos over horizon
Her skin, so soft, so dainty, glistening all life
Brought me back to heaven, alone; that hurt like knife
She was a butterfly, all bellé and elegant
She came, gave me life, I became her servant
But she was a butterfly
Never stayed for a while
She loved, was magical
And then she left like a miracle
I still miss her, sitting here beside vintage window
She was all I had, she gave me a flow
But never had I chance to tell her
That I love her, that I want her
That she’s mine butterfly, not God’s
As he claims, to steal her
But none can do, because mine heart is her
Because I can’t her go, I’ll be her Orion
Will create chaos over horizon

20:50
28 October 2016

i’m typing this
as i’m waiting for you to get back
from the bathroom.
in the starbucks
cozy acoustic music is playing
and your mocha frappucino
half empty
is on the table in front of me.
your lips have touched the lid
and i don’t want to be
that person
but i wonder.
i wonder how it feels
does it know that it’s lucky.
can it tell me its secrets
how does it do that?
get you to open up
and let inside the warmth?
i’m not jealous.
just curious.

you should be back any second now.
you might walk out
back to our cliche little table
and ask me
what i’m doing
what i’m typing so furiously
what i’m so passionate about.
i will want to say you.
i love you
right here right now right time right place
i won’t though

maybe i’ll say
“i forgot to finish this paper
that’s due at 11:59 tonight”
or maybe i’ll say
“i just got an urgent email
about my political science class tomorrow”
or maybe i’ll say
“an old elementary school friend
just sent me a Facebook message
and i need to reply”

or.
or maybe i’ll say
“nothing.
nothing more important than our coffee.”
maybe i’ll just close my laptop
mid-sentence
because it’s true.

nothing is more importa

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.