One of the deepest wounds you showed me
is the one your friend’s death left.
I know it’s still bleeding -
I see how it suddenly pains you,
and you just stand there,
trying to breathe the pain out.
“Four years passed,
and his absence still burns my whole being,”
I swallow the lump I always get in my throat
when someone talks about grief, and say:
“I sometimes sleep in her bedroom,
hoping I’d find a living part of her.”
We both excuse ourselves,
and cry until there’s a rush of blood in our head.
Maybe all the nights we spend
chaining our tangled souls together,
will stitch our hearts together.
And one day,
you will excuse yourself from my presence,
and go sit in your dark bedroom.
I’ll smile and visit the shore all alone,
knowing our souls are floating in the galaxies
inside our emptied veins.
I do not have the right to feel the fury in my chest when I see a picture of you and her.
It pains me to see her arm touching yours;
there is a familiarity between your bodies,
a familiarity I’ve been craving since you texted me goodnight,
before falling asleep in my parents’ guest house.
I’ve had my arms wide open for a year,
waiting for your heart to beat for mine.
One beat is enough for me to lose my senses.
Everytime we talked,
you showed me your broken pieces instead of letting me taste your rainbow;
I’ve grown attached to the way your words collapse after midnight,
and your soul searches for comfort in mine.
I’ve become haunted by the days you spent drawing your face near mine;
you were so close, I could smell the scent of your poignant daze,
yet so far, I couldn’t reach your lips.
The way those lips pronounced the sentence
“I like being different.”
and the way you took your coffee,
reflected my spirit on the curves of your bones,
and your dashing hopes.
I always saw myself in you.
I always believed that the universe brought us together for a reason,
that an aurora will fill the sky when I hear your heartbeat for the first time.
I always noticed the faint cosmos in your eyes.
Your black eyes.
They devour all of me like a black hole,
and I disappear in an esoteric world.
Everything remains mysterious,
but it is all raw.
You are raw.
You are a whole new universe that I now seek.
You are the mosaic pieces of glass that I colour with my blood and ink,
and the heartbeats that make me blush everytime you smile,
afraid that you’d hear them.
You are the fall that I embrace with a burning wild fire,
in hopes of melting the ice imprisoning your joy.
A writer’s block is like
a mother with an empty womb,
a king with no throne,
a lover with no heart,
a star with no darkness.
What would I do if
I lost my sanctuary?
If I couldn’t bleed the galaxies in my veins?
What would I do with the transcending universe
that my body can’t tame?
Who would I be without my ink?
Without my papers?
I would be a fallen star,
a black hole.
I’ll swallow you whole.
I am in a strange city,
making love to my solitude as
the universe protects me in a bubble.
Tranquility is killing my insides so softly.
This is all I ever longed for.
Until you came along, my love.
Your words taste so sweet in my mouth.
The silver cord that connects our souls is so strong;
It keeps bringing you closer to me.
I feel you hugging my ribcage,
breaking the knots in my windpipe,
dismantling the bullets in my throat.
Even if you’re miles away from me,
I feel you.
Gosh, the energy we share is so real,
I can almost see it,
almost touch it.
The serenity I’m experiencing is so intense;
All I can do is reminisce the day you locked your eyes with mine,
and our hearts synchronised.
I can almost breathe.
I can almost cry out my joy.
“Here you are darling,
in a strange city,
walking in a street you have never seen.
How does it feel?”
My heart is pounding with curiosity.
I want to touch the ruins,
caress the grass,
smile at the people
as they mumble their foreign words
to my peaceful face.
I want to breathe in that sour air,
and let the ashes that have been
clogging my heart fly away.
I want to cleanse my soul with everything strange.”
I wrote a poem,
inspired by all the lovers my chest ached for throughout the years.
the person I did not write about,
floated through mind,
as my hand traced the remains of their being.
They pained me with their love for my sorrowed soul,
while you sheltered it with the hope you etched in my dismay since I saw you;
There you were,
yellow like your aura,
a full smile on your lined lips,
your presence illuminating me,
embracing me like dry trees on a rainy day.
You made me wonder.
Your gaze made me wonder.
Those eyes still make me question the phrase:
“Only God is perfect.”
They looked at me with all their majesty,
and saw the sparks my electric soul emitted underneath all those dark shades.
You, my love, took in all the tears that made my veins burn.
I’m loving myself,
through the light I absorbed from the lightning that reflected in your mirrored eyes.
I do not understand how you can fall in love with someone that never gave you a piece of his mind,
that never stripped down in front of you from all the layers society made him wear,
someone that never told you what he thinks of the moon and the stars,
that never sank his teeth in his own skin in front of you,
that never told you why he likes his coffee bitter and his tea cold.
How can you love someone you never saw gaze at the night sky,
read his book by the shore,
smash his glass into the wall?
How can you love someone just by the way he calls you in the morning,
or smiles at you?
How do you have the guts to call something –
that does not crush your windpipe as you exhale its sour elixir,
You crave his attention.
You love what he offers you;
pleasure, satisfaction, comfort.
You never saw him naked.
You never asked him about that scar on his neck.
You never noticed how he spaces out when death pops into the conversation.
Do you know why death intimidates him?
Well, I do.
You love the rainbows he gives you,
the cotton-candy he buys you.
I love the cracks in his coffee mug,
the blackness under his eyes,
the pages he shredded from his books,
and the blood he bleeds while picking up broken glass.
I shouldn’t write about you.
Writing about you is like removing a bandage so slowly.
I know we’ve been distant.
I know we’re incompatible.
I know that I’m acid and you’re base,
I’m fire and you’re ice,
I’m black and you’re white,
but our love has always been neutral,
it has been a flame in the middle of a pond.
Our love has always been gray.
We somehow managed to balance each other;
my maturity with your foolishness,
my rain with your sunshine.
But what’s happened to us now?
I ran into you, and I didn’t even hug you.
I should not be writing about you.
But my clothes are hanging in your closet,
the journal I wrote you is laying dead on top of your bookshelf;
I bet it’s dusty now.
I wrote you masterpieces that represent the illusions we lived in.
We’re real now.
Everything real is fascinating,
no matter how cruel it is.
I am not a lonely soul,
constantly reaching for drops of affection
in this big, vague ocean.
I am solitary,
is finding peace in oneself’s presence.
is finding agony in the other’s absence.
I miss opening my journal,
and smiling while no ink leaves my pen,
because the emotions are too strong to
be a dead poem laying on a paper.
If I were to write about the love of my life,
the letters would abandon the paper,
and engrave themselves onto his heart.
No one would get the chance to taste my lips,
when it’s three am,
and they’re brunching past his ear,
as his hands draw my silhouette,
and he exhales ‘I love you’,
and my skin shivers,
as my soul leaves my body
to enter his ribcage.
I am not alone,
because I got a heart telling me
that the future is bright,
just like the stars I’m seeing right now.
What is this I’m feeling?
My whole body shakes slowly
as I walk across the table.
Has it come this far?
My system refuses being around people?
All it’s asking me to do is
drink more coffee,
stay in bed,
and read drunken poetry.
Maybe this is what happens when I sit around
small minds that cannot comprehend my big spirit.
They see everything I’ve grown attached to
as shallow as my love for gentlemen in suits is.
They think that my atoms are linked together
by the need to fit in.
They don’t know that I’m stitched by the stars,
my morning coffee,
my favourite books,
and the beautiful souls I am yet to meet.
They don’t know that I am transcending,
that I am galactic,
that I am opening my third eye to the unseen vision.