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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mr. Who

He's a painting, almost,
a perfect imperfection, an abstract combination,
of all of my favorite colors,
each line tells a different story,
which meaning only those who are willing to learn can understand.
It takes more than a good closer look to see,
that every engraved flaws of unfortunate apathy,
marks how much of a delicate art he is.

5:51 PM, breezy.

Oh, how he is so unaware, that the universe conspirates with these lyrics my heart writes for him most of the times.

How the sun gives him warmth in the cold morning breeze, how the sky paints its whole-self with amber when he walks out of the building at noon, and how the stars form beautiful constellations just for him to adore and to look at.

But how he is so unaware, he could only see them as a gift from someone else, another woman his heart longs for, and not as the universe's conspiration with me, the girl only whose name he knows.

2:39 PM, cloudy.

He's all the pauses: the almost, the in-between, the what-if; he's a regret, leaning in so close but still too far to be reached out just yet.

Will he get scared if he knows about my longing to touch? About the admiration, about how much?

He's lack of love, I'm out of luck, our words are overdue, and sometimes saying goodbye is way easier than to say "Me too."

Amber

She was there, blocking the window, her silhouette looked like it was glowing while the sun behind her began to kiss the day goodbye. "Isn't it beautiful?" She asked. That was when I realized, she came to watch nothing.

She was the view.

The Fox and the Prince

So we didn't talk that night, we didn't want to make things worse than they already were. But among those comfortable silences, I knew. That I've tamed you and I'm forever responsible for what I've tamed.

I regret nothing.

A Girl Inside Her Box

I always say that I want a love that makes me feel like the Wonderland is brought right to my feet without the need to follow the White Rabbit down the hole, competing with the ticking clock.

I always say that I want to be grateful, the same way of how the lonely Fox felt when the Little Prince stayed, every day an inch closer than the day before until he was finally sure enough to tame his wild heart for him, opening the door and let him walk in.

But sometimes, when the stories end, the pages won't stop flipping back to where they started, and I can't do anything but to watch Alice waking up not knowing Wonderland exists, or the Fox wither along with the grass since the Little Prince never leave his tiny planet for his conceited Rose.

At times like this, I find myself stumbling against this weird feeling, a combination of a little sting from longing for something to hold onto so dearly, a little spark of excitement from wanting to try something new, and a little anxiety from not knowing what will I encounter next and whether or not the pain will worth it.

So when a new book appeared, I just kept staring at its blank pages, knowing whatever I write will end up the way I start writing it: A girl inside her box. 

Little did I know, that the story of Alice and the Fox have been completed, and though it's a sick cycle, Alice and the Fox did find their Wonderland- their Prince, and no matter how insanely tiring their journeys were, they would eventually meet their own version of happy ending in the end.

While my story, it never starts. I'm still a girl inside her box.

Repeating

One night I caught him smiling,

Before he asked me things I'd do with him.

I end up spending the night story-telling,

Until I close my eyes, still murmuring.

Though I could still hear him saying,

"If that was you asking,

What would I do till we're dying,

I'd only say three things

And that's loving you, laugh, and repeating,"