Epiphany

The most genuine smile you had never worn,

until last evening.

And I was particularly very fortunate to have been the addressee.


Our days and nights are replenished with versatile discussions just like usual. Canada’s newly elected national bird, car insurance deals, your brand new pair of Nike LunarGlide, Hwang Kyo-ahn, Empire of the Sun’s Two Vines, my new hair dyes in ebony, et cetera. Although mostly it is me consuming the knowledge you shared, rather than explicating my own opinions or emotions towards those things, being opposite of what you’re always doing and being utterly good at.

Some days I fear of being the cause of boredom—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 sure perfectly remember your voice and every peculiar accent of yours while you could perhaps easily forget mine—which I wouldn’t even be surprised about. But the fact that you’re staying, sticking with myself, constantly coming back with new subject matters every day, exalts me. Maybe, you’re in need of a person who would actually believe all the hypothesis that you smart ass invent, while I’m simply in need of

perpetual supply of your presence.

Either way, we’re symbiotically livening each other here.

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

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

A crave worth never having.

Forbiddance and Fainthearted

Nothing on Earth fortifies each other’s resplendency 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 roam onto my back, fondling my stiff shoulder until I dare myself to lean on yours, slowly and cautiously.

I then will stare at your pale skin with such look of a yearling witnessing their first white Christmas of snow flurry. Full of adoration, and a slight dismay, fear not to have them again.

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

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

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

for it is unattainable to alter the principals.

For not a single truth about us will ever remain

forever.

Moonlit Midnight of Men Murmuring

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

Why, of all implausible excuses she keeps inventing 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 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 grace.

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 entity 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.

Venture not taken, a sudden bump into the most idyllic yet scary truth, unexpected convergence of the least likely veracity,

that particular human,

with all their flaws and values comprising the exact opposite of falsity,

that 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 bloomed 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.


 

Oblivion

Ivar,

if love at first sight truly exists, mine would be the southern lights. One fine night in Ålesund, 1996, I caught my stepfather Dainin Kanav fall asleep to a video he played on repeat, which was recorded back then when he was journeying solo to the Falkland Islands. It was all magenta, the colour of my childhood princess, Sonja the baby doll. Broad horizons, infinite vacancy, wintry tarn, coalesced with that dancing Titania of nature’s. No other sound but fleeting nothingness clasping black pinewoods. I, then, sat next to the sleeping Kanav watching fifty-four seconds of what turned out to be my lifetime dream, learning for the first time that solitude was bliss.


Continue reading “Oblivion”

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 thought of you—that sickens 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 be petrified, and our preexistence be 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.

Here I enliven,

digesting diction, breathing brainchild, nurturing notions.

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 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 elude 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.