I could never finish writing off your name, with your strawberry scent vibrating towards mine and your hooded eyes that covers the wrinkles and your cheek dampens when you crook a smile, I could never stop writing you.

Maybe I was just drawing a thin line with heaven and a tightrope with my eyes close and hell bent towards the unending loophole of my forsaking fantasies, I guess I might stay here. There was something about you that I cannot forsake nor repaint with foreign colors and another texture — you were as a majestic being in my lucid dream.

That even though I cannot recount my fingers one or two or five or ten, I can picture the deepening hole of your dimples whenever you give the world another unbreathable cheeky beam and I sulk here, waiting for another neon glow of that majestic world in my dreamlike prophetic future.

Something told me it was you. As I bear witness another beauty in the realm of my alternative home, maybe then, peering at the sky while I was on a tightrope is worth every penny of sleep and drowsiness gulping another 90's wine.

There is no truth out
when both of them have said
fair share of lies,
who should you believe between them
they both are using you
for rising sympathy
and their greater good
your emotions are played with
it is an acting game
trust them when, and not
we are spectating it
like a tennis match,
but we are the ball,
landing on their bat
thrown across again and again
you are doomed
finding bits of truth in their lies
either way, no one can complain,
it is no easy call.