The Untouchable

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

Never before you met a soul so impeccable; whimsical words born from their fetching fingers, constant supplies of contagious laughter they radiate into the realm, modesty within all the sincere kindness they touch the Earth with, the way they cover their grace with elegance, all the exemplary talents people wish to steal,

all sublimity you can barely touch. When boundaries are higher than 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,

even the whole lot of things you wish you could caress.

Are they worth the yearnings?

Interstellar

Often times I notice how the edge of my heliosphere intersects with yours; in such bizarre motion that hauls me to the same loop of conundrum all over again. Inconvenient gestures that come into sight because; expectancy arisen; yet solicitude that interferes. Whether or not my conjecture makes sense, or your presumption is legitimate. Questions that we could answer harmlessly, but we choose not to.

In my universe of books, white coffee, oil paintings, humans’ expressions immortalized in black and white images, you happen to be the wet empty bench in the midst of a city park. Lonesome, unharmed, but seemingly refusing to be saved at the same time. What am I in yours? Amongst abstract tunes, movies from the 50’s, Darjeeling tea, and pages of short movie screenplays?

Perhaps a dusty shoe on top of the rack of that store. Attached to the other pair, unable to be saved either.

On the Surface of a Perforated Sphere

Over a shot of your 252 and a glass of plain lemon water of mine we exchanged our notion that evening. Casually and unpretentiously. But still, the kind of conversation that would intrude my mind for weeks or possibly more, partly because: 1. Your queer accent had always been my strange sort of muse; 2. Your judgment towards unhappy facts had even been growing more liberally since the last time we had such discussion—despite possible cause of simply different shots 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 infelicitous consequences. Repeating the same cycle of melancholia, followed with acceptance, and then hunger for coming back.

Have we never learned anything?

Oh, darling, we have. We always have. But we have always decided to also forget the lesson that we’re the sorts of variables that could never coexist altogether in any equation, simply because we believe in possible new approaches to overcome that biggest issue of our affinity.

Whether it’s actually realistic or not.

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, a soul that had recently been responsible for your constant source of fun—fulfilling part of you 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 folly.

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 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.

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.