The Untouchable

Your twenty-sixth birthday went past, all the transient romances ceased, your adolescent lust turned into a hunger for a more timeless bond.

Never before you met a soul so impeccable; whimsical words born from their fingers, constant supplies of their contagious laughter radiated into the air, all the sincere goodness they touch the Earth with, their grace covered with elegance, all the exemplary qualities everyone wish to steal,

all sublimity you can barely touch. When boundaries are as high as discrepancy, bigger than numbers, stronger than faith,

all that is solely out of your reach. Even skins, even the tip of their fingers where affection is preserved for too long,

and a whole lot of other things you wish you could caress.

Are they worth the aching?

On the Surface of a Perforated Sphere

Over a glass of your gin and tonic and another one of sparkling lemon water of mine, we teased each other’s senses once again that evening. Casually and unpretentiously. But still, the kind of conversation that would intrude my mind for days or possibly more, partly because: 1. Your lazy accent had always been my strange sort of muse; 2. Your judgment towards socio-political facts had even been gone more boldly since the last time we had this kind of encounter—despite possible cause of simply different drinks you had; and 3. Your wavy edges of hair draping behind your trilby hat fit you like never before.

The other part was just because, it’s you and me again. Trying to befit our fortune and deal with the unfortunate consequences. Repeating the same cycle of melancholia, followed with acceptance, and then hunger for coming back.

Have we never learned anything?

Oh, we have. We always have. But we have also always decided to forget the lesson that we’re the sorts of variables that could never coexist altogether in any equation, no matter how much we always want to believe in possible new ploys to overthrow that prime issue of our affinity.

Oceans away from where we were, a soul that was supposed to be half of me was undergoing their life on a casual daily basis, being clueless about what I was suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

A quick stroll away from where we were, someone that had recently been responsible for your constant source of fun—fulfilling part of your appetite I could never afford—was waiting for you to knock on their bedroom door; being clueless about what you were suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

And there we were, getting stuck in the same final question as always. And our approach towards it would be you unconsciously staring at my face, which I reply with the exact same of motion; and for seconds we’ll begin to notice again how the freckles in our eyes are mirror images if only we could stand close enough to also notice that they’re perfectly aligned.

And that stops only when one of us giggles, and looks away, and laughs at our constant trait of being silly.

Because our skins don’t even know each other. Unlike yours and hers. Or much fewer parts of mine and his. Our different set of boundaries defines it all.

And you appreciate that, and I appreciate you for appreciating that.

But hey, our eyes.

The only entities that communicate the most when our voices no longer do.

“So what are we going to do now?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

“We never did, do we?”

“We always did. We chose to ignore all the time.”

“Then?”

The guy in the live band sang Transatlanticism in the way we never heard of before, and just like that, we knew the only answer for our ponder rightaway.

To be close, no matter what we are, no matter what we can or cannot do,

or become.

I need you so much closer.

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.

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.

Oneiric

After straight four hours of watching people wearing satins passing entrances.

/their own kind of today/

Adolescents standing on the dais wear bright sweatshirts, some with knitted vests, as well as harem pants with monochromatic chiffon shirt, all hymning twee to dreamwave if not shoegaze to lo-fi tunes with whimsical lines they have curated the list before—sometimes the bands do not mind doing Scandinavian folk for special order—and her (second) favourite person on Earth at the moment is the boyish-haired girl with xylophone. Filigrees with white to peach blossoms all over the hall, befitting the magenta-coloured flamingo installation near the doorway. Kids wearing pearly tulles to adults wearing ivory brocades surround the portico along with sous-chefs dishing up cannellonis from table to table.

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Errer

In times of yore, I used to fall for the idea of wanderlust. Stations moving behind night train window, eyes of spouses longing for immediate arrival in every corner of the airport, the smell of salty water slowly vanished within merchants’ old-fashioned perfume scent on cruises—all of them were all the kind of constancy that I kept witnessing each time. And I felt good, as well as alive. It was as if the entire humankind was within my neighbourhood and that all voyages were just routines that kept me sane. It was as if I never befriended the word “hometown,” or “settlement,” or “stay,” not even a chance to know the meaning of.

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