Better Together

i have done this millions of times, pouring my feelings onto a piece of paper, filled with sketches and scribbles, words stroke replaced with new ones just to get the rhythm going. it used to be easy, even the heartbreaks are way easier than this. but this, is an outburst of feelings, like the one you have on your firsts; first kiss, first i-love-you, first cup of shared hot chocolate; times a thousand, exploding together, all at once. it's too much happiness to fit in the caption of all the photographs we took, all the moving scenes of us, and of splashing rainbows he gives on each and every frame. my words are overdue. and this time, it's a good, good thing.

"i'll tell you one thing 

it's always better 

when we're together"

Untitled

for the first time after a real while

certainty means the exact opposite

and no matter how strong your grip is

the earth feels too lose under your feet

you thought when the quest is over

the world will finally put your mind at ease

but those mouths won't ever stop will they?

sucking hard on your confidence like leech

so you surrender with palms kissing the floor

to the one who owns the heart

and the feelings it both produces and consumes

so that if broken it must be from if a falling shall occur

the faith and patience would stay

though the bravery and determination

may not be much more

Nameless Noun

there should exist a word to describe the longing for something despite the fact that you have not lost it, a feeling for something so strong that even a sip of his love you took just seconds ago becomes something you're lacking of for now, like feeling homesick the moment he lets you go from the warmth of his arms, even with his scent still lingering on your t-shirt, like how your brain craves for the softness of his kind words when they kiss your ears the moment he shuts up, or how the gaps between your fingers feel too empty when he lets go of your hand just to scratch his nose. there should exist a word to help you explain the situation.

"i miss you so much."

"but i'm here."

"i know."

Stay

i did, once upon a falling star, wish for a relationship with someone i could laugh with and at, the one who'd bring me to parks to enjoy the breeze in the midst of the busy buzz of the city, observing people and jokingly dub their silent thoughts about their lives out as our sneakers rest against the trunk of an oak tree we would lay down underneath. i did, in the middle of a night, raise my hands up high and pray for a man who'd see me, not pass my flaws, but at them, paying attention with great details and leave commentaries about how meaningful they are like they're scattered pieces of art, which form one I should, by now, have made peace with. i plant it in my mind, making a slide show i would hit the replay button over and over again for, about something that maybe even god has not yet have in store for me. everyone knows perfection is a lie, living only in books i've read and movies i've watched and talk about with my girl friends. so it did struck me when you came. rather than a dream come true, you have become a living nightmare, ghosting around each passing minutes, strengthening my fear of losing, waiting for a thing to go wrong along the way. now that i've known real perfection, how can i ever live without one once you're gone?

Snooze (i)

What's stopping you?

Good question. What's stopping me?

Nothing.

It was the comfort, the glimmering hope of a settlement, of peacefulness, of a home. It was the word "finally", the feeling of everything being enough kind, "finally"

Is it the insecurities?

Insecurities? Insecurities? Insecurities? The word echoed, gently knocking on my skull. Those fears I haven't felt for years had then been awakened. The feeling of being alone when everyone else is not, the feeling of being the one that is left out. But is it?

Maybe.

But is it really?

Or the confidence?

It's been so long, true, but have I not been living my life to the fullest still, all these times? I don't need those supports, I said, knocking the fears back to the very bottom of my mind. I am my own support system. So why bother searching?

Both, I think.

They jumped out of the pool of mud, clinging hard onto my head until they cooled down and finally made themselves a permanent souvenir. That was when I know, that once he leaves, he'll leave something ugly behind.

You should probably start again, then.

Just like that, the alarm started the annoying ring. And I snoozed. I snoozed. I snoozed.

Appendix

you never plan it to happen

neither to have it written

him, another stranger you met

once upon another dimension

them, rings that kept you awake at 2

when you should be ready by 7

effortless, almost

what was casual becomes constant

that becomes a routine

came in so often

and by then you knew

you were either blessed or screwed

but that didn't stop you, even

although he stayed like an appendix

which is worse than a mystery

he was there, nothing to be fixed

until it caused a slight misery

which absent, though brings no harm

leaves a mark after the surgery

his function, which remains untold

becomes the source of the worry

was he supposed to be

the end of the journey

or another lesson that

you have to carry?

but then, don't you think

you had enough of them already?

wasn't it time for you

to grab the present?

just like how his midnight laughter

brings the cotton candy sunset after

or how his morning greeting

becomes your lullaby

and his nonsense talking your anthem?

that was what you believed in

until what was once a routine

becomes casual

off of the schedule

and crossed from the usuals

fading back to level one

back to "every once in awhile"

they all have something in common

the cool breeze in a sunny day

three layers of blanket in a cold night

the crescent moon tattoo on your collar bone

him

things you wish would stay

clinging to your senses, to your sight

on your phone

him

pretty, but temporary

Worst Best Part

I met you

and after years of uncertainty

of a frightened heart

and a lonely soul

it begins to look easy

except words exchanges

are no better than
those of breaths

and then I start to think

whether or not it's me

you have fallen for

or am I just 

another friction of ideas

you made yourself.

The Long Aftermath

i

he traveled half way to meet me, and that was a start. he took me to his favorite book store in town, where we window-shopped over art books, drown ourselves in pretty book covers, discussed a theory about a cross-universe that should exist between the comics we grew up with, and argued on which, between harry potter and the wonderful world of ghibli, would make a better bed time story.

ii

we wandered around the city, losing sense of direction as we continued to laugh at the jokes we brought upon ourselves, our lives, and the people in it. then we just sat down, underneath a giant tree which name remains unknown for the both of us -it might have been an oak- observing the entire world as they continued to move, arrhythmical, but affecting one another, interestingly.

iii

I've always dreamed of a mindless dance in the middle of a busy town, exposed, yet feeling secluded at the same time, with no music accompanying but off tune hums of an old song my parents might have danced to. it was almost as if he could read pass my eyes and into my mind, he found the old dying thought somewhere in between my brain cells and decided to let me have it my way.

iv

there hasn't been any talk about the animals we'd want to be reborn as if we were given the chance to, or about the famous people whose actions and personalities changed the world for the better -those we'd love to meet- or the nightmares that follow us around even when we're awake, a part of our childhood that grows up together with us, darker than our own shadows.

v

but then again, most of the times, I don't even know if I want to know him better than I did you, nor I want him to read me better than you did me.

vi

"read me your poems," you said.

"I want to know how you feel when you wrote those words," you said. if only I knew that my nakedness would scare you away, I wouldn't say yes to that one damn request.

vii
trust me, love. I've tried. but liability is one loyal friend of mine, and it prefers having me suffer over the memories of you. so no, as much as I want, and have been trying to, this is not about him. yet

Stuck

I'm stuck

when your eyes met mine

and how instead of looking away

they stayed

I started to eventually

see myself in you

waves of warmth swept gently

onto my shore

taking sands with them back

deep into the ocean

only to wash out more of it

for me to build a bigger castle

there is a reason why time exists

he said, it is for us to slow down

to enjoy every bit of the baby steps

every sip of carefulness in our laughters

every sigh in every absence of

each other's presence

so we can cherish the moment

it tricks us into thinking it stops

the whole world tick as usual

moving in its own rhythmic routine

I started to eventually

see myself in you

when your eyes met mine

and how instead of looking away

they stayed

I'm stuck

Liability (ii)

just like how an author has this tendency to become more poetic when their feeling goes unrequited, longing for something that is way too far to reach somehow appears prettier than it is to be together with someone that loves you more than you love yourself; as in being pointed out for your flaws gives you this weird ecstatic sensation of self cautiousness. shouldn't it be a good thing, though? knowing how crazy your hairs look like when you wake up would always be adorable in their eyes, and how those weird group of moles on your left cheeks would make the prettiest constellation? he once told me, that my boring brown eyes were so clear he could almost see his own reflection. no one sees me that way before, turning my shameful flaws as their own lines of poems. it had always been me, a poet who romanticizes even the stupidest heart-broken tale ever. maybe this is how it feels like, being the subject of a literature. it feels scary, it frightens me, honestly. and now that I am on the other side, I wonder whether or not it is the same thing that caused the others' disappearances. maybe love, for them, was too much. maybe love too, for me, is way too much.

Teenage Fantasy

(i)

streets we walked in

pavements our heels stomped on

flicked pages against our fingertips

sips of coffees and exchanged glances

you.

(ii)

warm mugs against our palms

stolen kisses that tasted like

the chocolate we just drank

the cold damped ground we rested on

you.

(iii)

whispered sweet nothings

as we danced the night away with

nothing but hums of off tune melodies

that sounded too close, too real

you.

(iv)

his replacement

your involvement

my damnation

you.

Winter, Don't Slip Away

i've been outside lately, enjoying the change of season where, finally, the nights won't be as cold anymore, and the trees won't be as dull with blooming cherry blossoms, a touch of pink in the midst of grayish brown the autumn left on the leafless branches.

for a moment, things turn out prettier that it had been the past few weeks, the wind is still blowing as hard, but the sun shines bright every now and then, which makes even the chillest day tolerable somehow.

i've been getting better, you know, at ignoring the longing, but tonight, as i curl against the last string of coldness, i choose to look back. despite all of its odds, this winter has brought warmth to my chest, and somehow, though it's standing right in front of the door, gently knocking, i'm not ready to greet spring just yet.

Memories, they take so long to erase. Will they ever even start to fade? I'm on my way. Just not today.

Talk

people said that eyes communicate better than words, and I couldn't help but to agree, quite a few times, for your tones and those heavy sighs are such bad liars. but there are moments when the honesty in your talk of passions and wrong decisions speak the loudest. every time you have the short-clipped breaths in between those sentences, I was, for a moment, assured that what people said is not always the truth. so close your eyes, and talk to me.

Mind Game

mind is the strongest one among all, don't you agree?

when lips muttering his name half consciously,

hands reaching out for his warmth,

eyes looking nowhere but at his engaging pair of green,

and tongue craving for nothing but his taste,

who do you think has the absolute control?

"he loves me, he loves me not

he loves, he loves me not

he loves me..."

it wonders,

and wanders

and just like that,

deep down into the rabbit hole she goes.

Saturn (iii)

I like you, because for once after a real while, you make me feel like I can wholeheartedly be myself, that my personality wins and my appearance is just a little icing to the cake. I like you, because you make my stand matters, that keeping myself until marriage is not a silly thing to do, it's remarkable even, and that me communicating with my God in times I don't feel like I could juggle the prayer in between my schedule, is beautiful. I like you, because you make it feels like talking to you is not a waste of time, that I get to do my things first before your night time comes, so I have a bunch to tell you while sending you to sleep. I like you calling my name, I like you calling me with names you made yourself, I like you calling me with names I proclaim myself as, and I like remembering them like they never go away.

I should have stopped, when you said none of those things are real, that it's just another play-pretend and make-belief episode, similar to the poisonous one I had years ago. I should have stopped, when our talk becomes a routine I can't get myself out from, like the sick gravity I once got myself into, knowing well once it's ended, I'd stumble miserably, again. I should have stopped, when you told me you have your own issues, and that somehow, somewhere, they involve us in it. I should have stopped when you told me you like me, when it slipped out of your mouth way too easily, when later on you said you were sorry on how much you have mislead me, when you said we should not go further because you don't want me hurt.

But I didn't. You are too good to be true and I just don't want to let go, at least until I get to experience the most with you, however it would end, and that's selfish of me, to stay when you obviously has shown how not interested you are in our conversation anymore, how, maybe, I got you so wild that your flame has actually went off that none of the sparkle is left to dance the night away anymore. I cling too hard onto my thoughts, onto my idea of you. Maybe I'm the one who mislead myself all these times. Maybe it's not you who I like, maybe it's your company, our conversation, my time spent with someone real, about something that is not. Maybe what I fall for is the way you make me feel, the confidence boost, the excitement, and the crazy rush in my chest.

But anything too much isn't good, and I think I got too much of you already. I think you, or should I put it, the idea of you, took so much space that when you are finally gone for good, it leaves me this huge hole in my chest, full of nothingness. Something is gone, and it feels fucking heavy. It's so unfair, how short the fireworks last, yet how much it affect my night, making it lonely. It's so unfair to know that I'm the only one among us who ends up with the feeling, that you are doing fine, probably reading one of those articles with your glasses slipping down your nose until you fall asleep. It's so unfair that I'm not okay and you are, and how easy it is for you to disappear, and for me to be erased, when disappearing for me is hard as I kept on coming back, wishing you would say "don't go," when erasing you ended up in a session of rewriting.

I guess it's just the tendency that I have, putting too much trust into something that has such small percentage to work. What can I say? I grew up believing in miracle, in fairy dusts and Neverland, in hope that someday I'd have my own definition of them. But funnily, I have no regret for the falling this time. The short stay in your field of gravity has been the most pleasing ride in awhile, even. I'm glad we met, I'm glad you stayed, and I'm glad you're gone. You're a lesson learned hard, slapped right onto my face, yet a lovely short story I'd like to keep in my shelf forever. Instead of remembering your last painful goodbye of how we went overboard with each other, I'd rather remember you as a friend I found mid-galaxy, a friend who has the remarkable ability to help me grow into a better person each day the past three months, a person who leaves me with a self-love as his legacy, and as he once told me, "You are kind, you are strong, you are beautiful."

So thank you, Z. I might have missed my chance to say it to you directly but, good luck taking the baby steps out of your comfort zone. You deserve all the good things in the world.

The Man Who Can't Be Moved

Some times I wonder

if it's just in my head

him having his voice lower

a sign of being so upset

every time I skip a prayer

or having my tears shed

for things that shouldn't matter

as I bury myself on bed

he'd stand an inch closer

just enough to pat my head

"they're a bunch of losers

no better than your dad!"

To the man who can't be moved, happiest August 15th, Daddy! I hope I don't cause you any frown, despite how suck I have been these past couple of weeks. Love you heaps and miss you lots. Al Fatihah.

Peace

I find peace in long train rides

in autumn leaves that brush against their branches before they fall swiftly onto the asphalt, coloring it brown

in the smell of an old library, of the dusty pages in books which sheets have gone pale, filled with marks of folded papers done by uncountable fingertips

in the peeking sun from my half closed window blind, landing on my forehead like a spotlight, a morning kiss that warms my mind up from the cold thoughts I had the night before

in a cup of coffee a stranger brew, which scent catches my sense on my way home, with a subtle hint of mint in the middle of mixed fumes of cigarettes coming out of the mouths of unfamiliar faces

Selflessness

In a way, it introduces her to her real self

the girl who is capable of having

all of the feelings that

she was not aware was there

the messy jumbled of mess

she did not know she was able to handle

It makes her feel too much

too much of herself

but at the same time

it engraves the selflessness within her

and as she dives deeper

surrendering to the ecstatic excitement

the more pieces of her she gives away

the lesser there are left for her to hold

She wakes up every morning

questioning the mirror

which is reflecting someone else

hiding beneath her skin

staring back with unfamiliarized eyes

seeking for things

that have never been missing

and a lonely heart that is

craving for happiness but her own

"what's left of you for me to love?"

she asks the foreign reflection
and just like that

the selflessness creeps right back in

Home

the brushes

the strokes

the pressures

they work like a midnight storm

in a warm summer

like an off tune lullaby

in my dad's shaky voice

like laughing for something

we would have cried about

if only we were alone

like a long ride with windows down

like the cool breeze

that waves our hairs flirtatiously

toward the moving scenery

like the sound of the moving cars

on the main road two blocks away

or the ticking clock when

everyone else is asleep

like my name, said in a low whisper

in between the pillow marks

half closed eyes

and crazy hairs

Almost, just almost home.

Things

Things have been confusing; simple, yet complicated in a way, easy, but at times too tough to handle, and as if it's not enough, there are things you can easily distract yourself from, which, at the same time, can slip back effortlessly into your mind like lines Dylan Thomas wrote. They say the only way out is to figure yourself out, that while you are your own problem, you are also your own solution, but if it really is that simple, why do things still all fall into the wrong places? What if I'm not the kind of person I want to meet?

"I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression." Dylan Thomas

Silent Dialogues

They are uttered in mumbles, against half-closed palms with eyes closed, of unspoken names whose faces never leave, of undisclosed desire which flames never die. "I hear you, I'm here. I know" He said. There was a long pause, a silence of warmth, before He continued, "So be patient."

Saturn (ii)

Don't you like the early AMs? Those times you could tiptoe out of your bedroom to just sit on the ground of your backyard, where the grass was probably wet, not from the rain, but from how cold the night was, that it felt damped against your pajamas as the coldness soaked into your skin? The moments where you could see the stars being awake, having conversations as the others were sleeping, blinking as they talked, exchanging 'hello' in almost inaudible whispers? I do.

Sometimes, when I do, I feel like I got soaked into their various luminescence, it was as if they 'caught me up in a swirl', as he said. But it wasn't the kind that gives you a headache, no. It was bedazzling, if anything, enchanting even. It felt like a risky, reckless flight to Neverland, and the stars were the fairy dusts, keeping you afloat with their twinkling chattering, and I was one of the Lost Boys, found.

In most of the trips, everything was so foreign, yet it got me familiarized so quickly. It was like encountering strange things in the woods people left for others to find, that reminded me of the personal items I scattered too once upon another time; memories, feelings, like a bunch of surprise souvenirs in a box, addressed to whoever is lucky, or poor enough to stumble upon and open.

My favorite conversation to hear though, was between the sun and that one particular planet; the one that looked like a tiny dot of white from where I usually lay down, despite him being the second biggest in the system. He is a planet so far the sun had to stretch her flares so much to make sure he gets to feel the warmth, so far that squinting his eyes wasn't enough to see just a glimpse of her shimmer. 

They mostly talk about their lives, sometimes it's about how lonely she felt, even in such a crowded place in the center of the universe, other times it's about how distant and distinct he felt, probably because of the rings surrounding him, which he may or may not be aware of them being one of the most beautiful things ever.

There were times, when in between those small talks, he'd wish her to be much closer, and each time he does, she'd blush, and the sky reflects it during the late AMs, like a painting, a perfect combination of her favorite colors; orange and yellow, before they had to part again, which might explain the color blue throughout the day.

The early PMs are not always good. Sometimes it's just cloudy, other times the sky's just gray and dull. But maybe he said something before their next talk, because hours ago, she blushed again, this time it was a wonderful gradation of pink and purple, it was as if she couldn't wait for the stars to be awake, having conversations as the others were sleeping, blinking as they talked, exchanging 'hello' in almost inaudible whispers.

I hope it's not going to be too cold tonight.

Saturn

I wasn't falling

It was weird but I felt like

I was being lifted up instead

To the depth of your wondrous

mysterious mind

Until I realized

Floating wasn't any better

I wish I would have fallen but

my dear sir,

didn't it make you feel good?

Love (n):

I was 13 when it first came. It was the endless talk, which took so long that my dad had to cut the line because the bill was piling up so fast. It was the bold admiration, the "I like you" that was uttered as loud as its meaning. It was the careless attitude toward the thin line between the L words, the cluelessness about the potential catastrophe about it, and the exchanged smiles; the damned smiles.

When I was 15, it was the tiny spaces in between the loosely intertwined fingers. It was the laughter shared in between the first kiss, and the arguments on which side to tilt whose head to as it continued. It was the movie marathon in my living room, and the non-awkward silence it brought right after; head on shoulder, sometimes legs on lap.

When I was 19, it was the lit phone screen at midnight, which was a gate to the fairy-tales of make-beliefs and play-pretends. It was the distance that was brought so close through texts. It was the question of "love at first sight? How about love before that?"

When I was 22, it was freedom, which was by then too much that it got so confusing. It was solitude, and the feeling of completeness, even when I was alone. It was what I thought was the end of the desperate endeavor, before it was the beginning of a new search instead; a gentle reminder that the definition will never stay the same.

I'm 26 now, and for all I've seen and what I'm seeing, it is the comfort. It is far beyond the initial ideas, deep beneath the very few surface of what the eyes can reach and hands can grasp. It is the plot twists, the unpredictable encounters, the mutual willingness to go further, and the childhood curiosity, brought back to life in the way the fairy dusts do to the lost boys' dreams.

It is you.

The Story That's Never Been Told

His lips leaped forward,

wanting to catch hers,

And as her hands stopping his,

which have moved several steps ahead,

she held her breath and stared,

wanting to catch his eyes.

"You don't even know me."

He looked at her, confused,

but more than anything, intrigued.

"You don't even know my favorite color."

She continued.

"You never tell."

"You never ask."

"What's so important about it?"

"We never really talk, you never really try

to just connect with me, you know,

emotionally."

As he paused, she prayed so hard,

so hard for him to say those words.

"I don't know your favorite color,

but I know you love your dad so much,

that his initial would be your first tattoo,

if you ever get one.

I know you always, weirdly,

wear your watch the wrong way,

with the analog just below your palm,

instead of facing upward, 

on the back of your wrist.

I know you love coffee a lot,

and that you like it black and hot,

neither with sugar nor milk,

but with cinnamon powder on top.

I know you twirl your hairs before you sleep.

I remember all of the things you've told me. 

And I know that I want to know more."

If only he'd tell her, she'd drag him closer,

by his collar, knowing she had let the right guy

to take what she shared only along with trust.

But he stayed, silent,

before he got back on his seat

and started back the car's engine on.

"Thames Street?"

Then she sighed,

"Thames Street."

That night,

none of them got what they wanted.

Liability

some people aren't meant to be kept

some times they just meet you

so you can meet yourself

so you can long back for the warmth

of the heart you have left cold for years

like the hot chocolate that night

that lost its taste against his

some stories aren't meant to be memories

some times they just happen

as a subtle reminder

of how good you are at loving

until you decided to shrug it off

like the cold night breeze

that brushed the same cheek he kissed

and some falling isn't worth telling

some times you fall just so you know

of how capable you are at holding

although love wouldn't be

as easy as how his long digits

intertwining with yours becoming

the best 2 minutes of your life

some times the end of the page

marks a new chapter

some times the closure of an envelope

marks a new letter

but he came like a summer fling in winter

and gone like a christmas present

that never arrives

at times like this

you just have to go home

to the only love that keeps

your heart, your lips and your hands

untouched so it can't ever be broken

untouched so they can't be left to dry

untouched so they can hold yourself better

in a way you let him tried,

in a way you wish he'd tried

Is It Time?

The neon lights sparkle

Fingers intertwine

Lips clasp and tongues dance

All but mine

Solitude romanticizes, they said

But definitely not mine.

Okay? Okay.

When you stare back, the brown pair shoots,
colorful explosions like fireworks, but in mute,
and I swear to god, I fall, and it does me no good,

"Please?"
"Okay, fine."

and it does me no good.

The Humming Bird

The words I make is a boring hum,

bringing proper peacefulness,

leading other people to fall asleep,

while my own is nowhere to be found,

as I'm filled with litres of bitterness,

where my self-pity stays afloat for weeks.

Sometimes

Sometimes,

people are destined to meet you

just to give you sparks

so that you would not forget

how love actually feels like

and how much of an importance it is

once it is, once again, taken away.

Sometimes,

people are just a bunch of painful, beautiful reminders

of how so, so, so alive you are.

Sometimes.

Cap ou pas Cap? (Encore)

Tell me something that

I haven't known about you
Pull me with your flaws

A haiku is a simple poem in a format of three lines:
First, five syllables
Then seven in the next line,
And then again, five.

...

I don't fall in love. I collapse.

Ms. Adler

She's not meant to be deciphered like a riddle,
her mystery is to be admired for long,
so that my curiosity will always win me over,
leading me back to her.

11:11 Wish

Ten to eleven

Sixty more seconds to go
To wish you were here

A haiku is a simple poem in a format of three lines:
First, five syllables
Then seven in the next line,
And then again, five.

Twenty Six: A Gift

I never thought I'd spend the first minute of my 26th birthday hundreds of feet up in the air, among the clouds, surrounded by a bunch of strangers whose language isn't my own. 

I never thought I'd leave my hometown, thousands miles away from where I used to live, having such a long journey alone. 

I never thought I'd be able to make it, I never had the confidence, since this used to be a battle I have against myself, of which my cowardice always won.

But I never question God and His plan, and that it will always be better than my own.

The scenic sun rise was a beautiful reminder of what Daddy used to tell me over and over:

"Nis, never underestimate a prayer."

So I did. I trusted Him. I trusted me.