Heart & Soul

At the elegiac words of your ode, even ache could be somewhat flawless. Your je ne sais quoi turns twinge into pleasure in disguise, like fading colours of daybreak in the border of the city and the sky. As fine as white and washed-out ivory, but less romantic than the contrast of urban lights and evening horizon. You define pain as if it is just a peach rosebud. A patisserie that is closed every Saturday. A loverboy two thousand miles away promising to be back home.They would eventually grow some happiness just yet, you believe.

When we speak grief, you remain vacant and your words keep flowing unemotionally like a lifeless being talking about living. All you ask is a help to draw the boundary between sadness and delight, because sometimes deep down, you enjoy your own sorrow a bit too much. You laugh over an endless rain on August night yet you still burst yourself into tears seeing your masterpiece sand castle collapse at the same night. You justify melancholy as if they are just contentment that are not meant to be yet. You be the wordsmith, I be the versifier translating your kind of woe and joy at the promise of defining the constraint.

At the chill of your heart, I promise to tie a sunshine up above and stop the realm from revolving so you could live your local spring all year long.

And at the winter of your distant smile, I promise to have you lowered down your tiara so we could let all the burden fleeting, passing your feet at the edge of your gown.

And at the blurred lines defining the blues and vice versa, you place us.


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