The festive lights are drowned
in the darkness of the night
and it's just you and I and
our sheets beneath us.

I breathed and traced your skin
with my fingers on my favorite parts
of you and tried to make your scars
feel a little bit lighter than before.

You healed from my touch
and slowly, I became a stranger
from my favorite places and my
landmarks are all gone.

From my love, I sparked the fire
that burned the fireworks in you
and you're slowly turning to ashes
just like my New Year's Eve.

You are so in love with the moon,
as much as it is with the ocean,
to notice a little star like me.
It's stupid of me to fall for someone
who sees light than a far away
twinkle in the sea of darkness.
Every night the moon shows up,
you cry and cradle yourself to sleep
for the moon is bathing the ocean
with her love and she's being
kissed with his towering waves
that may never reach her
but touch her in some way
that only them can understand.
And I'm here, from a distance that
only the Gods can measure how far,
twinkling in the pitch black sky
calling you out from your tears,
from her light that consumed your heart
asking for your heart. For your love.
But I'm never closer as the moon is to you
and falling from the heaven is just
worth a wish for you to have her love.

I was asked about
my favorite love song;
I talked about your voice,
your laugh, and the other
sounds that you make.

I was asked about
my favorite scent;
I talked about our bed
and how the stain on our sheets
brings the smell of our love.

I was asked about
my favorite book;
I talked about our story
and how it is beautifully
inked on sheets of cream paper.

I was asked about
my favorite color;
I talked about the golden threads
of thousand sunsets as the sun never
stopped setting in your eyes.

I was asked about
my favorite place;
I talked about the warmth
of your arms and the beating
of your heart while we're miles
away from dreaming.

I was asked about
my favorite view;
I talked about your smile
and the silly faces that you make
that always make my day.

I was asked about
my favorite among them all;
I talked about you being my drug
and the flaws and the handsome side
of you, how perfect you are to me,
and how you are my favorite.

"How can you love him like that?"*

At 5, they taught me
how to color shapes
and I would color them
beyond the lines.

At 10, they told me
to make a 500-word essay
and I did a 1000-word
for it and got an F.

At 16, they apprised me
to wear a cocktail dress in a party
and I wore a long dress;
they bullied me for weeks.

At 20, my professor instructed me
to place up to 5 decimal places
and I wrote 7 for assurance;
I failed his class.

At 23, he asked me to love him
with everything that I can
and I gave him beyond everything;
he broke my heart.

We are the lost lovers who wander
the great walls of this world;
in pursuit of the love that only navigators
can have in their very own hands.

And we go in endless circles while
endlessly hoping of being home
to someone we'll ever know but
our fate only does.

The roads have turned to deserts
and the life is starting to wither;
you are her oasis--her savior from dispair;
though you are nowhere to be found in the middle of the death fair.

You are one of the likes of her --
young, tired, lost, and long gone
from the lovers' lane you once belonged;
and you're alone, wandering to wonder.

May you both find your ways
through this garden of all-or-nothing;
and may you find dandelions
than a rose in a field of thorns.

Leave her
like how you would end
your favorite book.

All the markings you made
will be her ever after
on the pages you took.

Scan her down with those eyes
that once showed interest but are now
excited to read her very last word.

You would barely remember the details,
the marks, her errors, and lines
and will soon forget her.

And by then, you'll leave her
with pages mangled and folded
and befouled on the edges.

She's just one of your many books
piled in dusty shelves;
waiting in line to be forgotten.

She is her words --
        the letters in the lines;
        the art tattooed on pages.

She is mystery --
        the secrets and signs;
        the lies and her guise.

She is astonishment --
        the curved pathways in pages;
        the plot twists on the edges.

She is sadness --
        the tracing downfall from a cliff;
        like how she fell for you.

She is madness --
        the explosion of everything;
        the collision of all universe.

She is beauty --
        the art on gritty surfaces;
        convergence of different abstractions.

She is death --
        the poison to your heart;
        the knife before your eyes.

She is life --
        the birth of vivid events;
        the breath of memories.

She is love --
        the beating of each stroke;
        the thing you have from her.

She is her words --
        the black and blue on papers;
        the prisoner of her book.