Epiphany

The most genuine smile you had never worn,

until last evening.

And I felt particularly very lucky to have been the addressee.


Our days and nights are replenished with our multifaceted conversations just like usual. Canada’s newly elected national bird, car insurance deals, your brand new pair of masculine espadrilles, Hwang Kyo-ahn, Empire of the Sun’s Two Vines, your new hair dyes in chestnut, and so forth. Although mostly it is me consuming the knowledge you shared, rather than expressing my own opinions or emotions, being the opposite of what you’re always vigorously doing and being utterly good at.

Some days I fear of being the cause of boredom between us—since you’re always the storyteller and never have I ever not been the quiet, yet curious kid with hunger for bedtime stories. It almost feels as if I would someday perfectly remember your voice and every peculiar accent of yours while you might perhaps already forget mine—which I wouldn’t even be surprised about. But the fact that you’re staying, bearing with myself, constantly coming back with new tell-tales every day, delights me. Maybe, you’re in need of a person who would actually believe all the hypothesis that you invent, while I’m simply in need of:

a perpetual supply of your presence.

Either way, we’re symbiotically pleasing each other all along.

Such a sweet companion you are to the desolation that I consciously create around myself. If my lust towards ease is the Yin, you’d be the Yang that balances it with the obscure sort of sparks you offer. Arousing, but sedating at the same time. A panacea pill to my daily dose of anxiety.

And a secret worth holding back. A truth worth never told.

A crave worth never having.

Forbiddance and Fainthearted

Nothing on Earth complements each other’s charm better than my ebony hair and your ivory skin do.

Sometimes, with the slight fragrance of peppermint and a hint of vanilla scent from behind our necks. Your fingertips will then begin to find their way onto my back, fondling my stiff shoulder until I dare myself to lean on yours, slowly and cautiously.

I will then stare at your pale skin with the look of a four-year-old witnessing their first white Christmas of snow flurry. Full of adoration, and just a hint of slight dismay, fear not to have them again.

A little caress here, a little less tense there, then time pauses for us,

as if it offers some momentary interlude for us to dwell within guilt and questions.

For it demands more than mutual devotion for two individuals to cohere,

for it is unattainable to alter the pillars.

For not a single truth about us will ever remain

forever.

Moonlit Midnight of Men Murmuring

1:01 AM and somewhere across her room, someone is responsible for unnecessary assumptions passing into her head.

Why, of all implausible excuses she keeps fabricating by herself, this particular one turns out to be the most provoking?

Observation doesn’t seem to be of any help. She needs to ponder. Deep. Into rooms where perception and feelings are stored for long, for she has always been way too afraid to get close by.

But the answer has always been complicated and difficult, either to translate, or to appreciate.

All she knows that some things linger. And remain. And never escape.

Gentle pats on her head, awkward arms around her, the curly edges of ivory hair blown away by the afternoon breeze,

the fairest colour of skin she has ever witnessed,

all that she saw, all that she felt because.

Slight details she would rather disremember about.

Somewhere across her room, two bodies are inside each other’s, yet it doesn’t scare her. For the only freedom she owns is her own train of thoughts, as her heart is sealed with loyalty, and her body is bounded with promises.

She just believes there’s a space for her,

always. Even between the adhered surfaces of two skins against each other that night.

She’s an remedy he wouldn’t unhand.

Not now.

A Cold Play

Let’s talk about chances. Impossibilities and whatnot, things you considered to be nowhere close to be ever found, truths that you’ve always thought to be way too far-fetched to exist.

Surreal places by the edge of your pleasantest dreams. The fading smell of meadow rue at the tip of your nose. Beautiful souls you never plan to fall for.

Feelings that are disguised in twisted logic.

Ventures not taken, a sudden bump into the most idyllic yet scary truth, unexpected convergence of the most scattered facts,

that particular human,

with all their flaws and appeal comprising the exact opposite of harmony,

but makes you question your loyalty for

a belief you’ve been upholding way too tightly.

Let’s talk about chances not taken. Let’s talk about how we would deal with the consequences of unleashing the untold and then letting loose. Let’s talk about two scientists bearing their senses and trying so very hard not to fear about what has bloomed inside, what has flourished way more than presumed.

Let’s talk about where it hurts like heaven.

Stadiums Shrines

In a world where the fine line between white and black is sometimes undecipherable, there gets to be some time when everything becomes just clear and readable—in absence of the gray or blurred intervals. Spaces between your eyelids and that couple of brownish circles. Silvery dust flowing away from my face every time I breathe. Sheets of papers with your terrible handwriting on them.

Among things that are white, those are the ones I enjoy spending time to look at the most. Where truth be found, and things are absolute, with no transitions. Eyes that don’t hide lies, scattered dots showing where the atmosphere flows, and writings of non-fiction that are disguised in novels or fairy tales. Unlike snows that melt, the walls between our rooms that crack, or the back side of those photographs of your face which eventually turn to yellow.

Somewhere along the fine line, I can see the other side where things are all the contrary. Black, and unlit. Like the total eclipse of your heart before this story comes to life. Or the conservative mind of mine before our lives intersect.

In other word, the past before us.

Poethood

Fireflies between your fingers, flaring, twisting twilight—I am caught in moonlust; eerie lull over my collar, I’m all conquered by the absence of the day.

My syllables are such disarray, that I translate into songs to preserve the thoughts of you—that sickened me last night, tonight, and every night after. I spell your name backwards. There’s teardrop from below. My Sun descends eastward.

Dear Carrie, said Lowell,

There was a history before us, with tales never before told, pieces never before seen. We’d senesce and eventually perish, with our ideas petrified, and our preexistence either forgotten or unfortunately celebrated. But together—you and I—we’d perpetually coexist.

Dear Lowell, Carrie said,

Here I am, unbounded and infinite. Untangled and invincible.

To write or to writhe.

Anti-clockwise

I ran endways.

The days are now retrograding. I walk backwards to retrieve a route within your orbit, not to be apart, not to be kept away all over again. You keep your own aureole but I carry the rainbow that keeps it whole.

“When was the last time you discover, that you must learn to lose before you know how to keep things safer?”

“Not after the recent days, and not again.”

Jamais vu. The overflowing words coming out from my mouth, devastation all over your vague look, home straying apart, and on, and on; all the scenes I refuse to remember;

I could’ve been encouraging you to grow taller. You could’ve been arising and unstoppable. The butterflies would’ve been here withal, tingling and alive.

To give more, to expect less.

To serve the kind of devotion which a Mother shares to her sons and daughters, and the Sun’s shine conveys to its surrounding vacancy.

While us mankind speaking of loss. Who are we to long for gratitude,

to desire honour?