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.