I once confessed to my dearest Spaceman, "I'm afraid of being alone."
Because he asked me, why care about what they say? why conform?

Because i'm afraid of being the only one.
Ridiculous, he said.

Oh my dear, beloved Spaceman
The loneliest man in the world
Because you went to space and back again
Because you saw something more
Because no one understands your brilliance

But I am only what I am
and I'm afraid of being the only one

in your drunken stupor
your fingers drawing stars in the sky
scars in my heart

i watch you stagger
and you know i'd leave you if i ever felt unwanted
you are not the best
but i still want you

maybe we could go back to when we had no reason to love
but did anyway
or we could stay here
and tell ourselves this is love

"And in the end we were all just humans, drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness." - F. Scott Fitzgerald

I'm like that favorite bedtime storybook you used to read every night before you sleep,
now i'm sitting at the back of the cupboard,
hoping that one day, out of nostalgia,
you would pick me up again.

you are that dull ache in my heart,
that on certain days when i look into the rain,
and am reminded of how wonderful you were
how wonderful i am
how wonderful we were

there were unasked questions hanging in the air
unasked because we don't (want to) know the answers
hanging because the air was so thick so solid
that you could build castles on them if you really want to
but what good would that be
it will only crumble and you know
i crave for security and stability
firm ground for my stumbling feet
and thoughts are too fickle
too easy to burst like bubbles in sunlight
so beautiful yet so fragile
so let me ask you what i did not ask you
is there a certain elegance in the way we fall?
light as a feather but falling like stones
because what logic is there in love
what theories of physics can bind us
when the air is so thick that
questions hang like potted plants
from the ceiling of the castle we have just built

Life is a lot like flying a hot air balloon
Fiery passion brings you high
but knowing when to throw out the sandbag
is probably a skill worth learning on its own.

A Kingfisher for lunch
Lost in a daze
I'm just a drop in the ocean, you said.

Let's not forget the moment
Let's not forget Foster and mutton curry
Let's not forget that somewhere out there there's me

The sound of their steady voices
Mercy of strangers
You are unhinged and you don't know about it

The yearn for something more than this
Oh, young lady, fool us, please
You laughed and welcomed me to the club

And you know, oh, how you know
That I'm new and stupid
And yet you laughed with me

The indignity
Of you who gave me life
On a cold, passion-filled, loveless night
Your young skin
On her old bones

You who hid from the cradle
The bat-catcher
The apologetic on the phone
Lying amidst the ruins of
Dreaming of

Scents and spices
Hot flames licking the back of your hand
Pastries dancing
On grilled lamb shanks

Do you often wake in the middle of the night
As I do
And wonder if there was something you could do
but didn't
And then willed yourself into

Nonexistence

The indignity
Of being forgotten by a part of yourself
Of losing your soul to the mistakes of the past

there was a little garden
with a broken wooden ladder
and lots of green plants
and some purple flowers
when it rains
the moss-covered wall turns a darker shade of green
and the cat would sit and watch
while the raindrops perform
a dazzling waltz
that ends with a heartbreaking splatter

"The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of." -  Holly Golightly, Breakfast At Tiffany's

i've been having the mean reds lately.

it's a paradox. how you're never the best, but when better ones come along, they pale in contrast to you. somehow i've come to love you in all your averageness, found beauty in your flaws. somehow your insignificance gave me a place to settle upon.

it's comfortable in your arms, and your smell assures me. please never allow me to lose you.

until your fickle skin
decides it wants my touch
i shall wait with extended fingers

i found a hole in which i could hide, in which my thoughts are safe from you.
i jump to conclusions, and i'm not good with names.
i change too fast, and i hide too well.
try to remember the last time you had taken a good look at me.
you do not remember my face.
but i remember. i remember everything.

if i had a heart i would have worn it on my sleeve.

i found a whirlwind in which i could throw my secrets into,
in which they come out muddled beyond comprehension.
i think too quickly, and i pretend too readily.
try to remember how many times have i said goodbye to you.
you do not know my voice.
but i know. i know nothing.

if i had a soul i would have cried out for you.

i found a pool in which i could fish, in which i use pieces of myself as bait.
i am too many things, for too many people.
i lie too willingly, and i influence too effortlessly.
try to remember the last time you had resisted me.
you do not recognize my touch.
but i recognize. i recognize weakness.

if i had a body i would have yearned for you.


but alas, i have none. you do understand cruelty but you do not understand me.

to have no sense of time
in a society that is bounded
by minutes hours days
when the ticking of the clock
only adds to their fear
the fear of time running out

and there you are
smelling flowers
kicking stones
and asking, "where's everybody rushing to?"