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?

Your world does not revolve around you

What are we but breathing creatures consist of stardust. In a colossal cosmos of gigantic constellations, we are never more significant than a handful of clays scattered in between a skyscraper-sized breccia outcrop. In the gap between nothingness and existence, that is where we are, wishing if only we were less inconsequential than we are, while every living cell of us—every smallest bit of it—is just particle of no great concerns compared to our surrounding—and expanding?—universe. Things we cannot control keep taking places; subduction exists, orogeny happens, Earth’s plates shift, all occurrences happen, and we stay small.

Hello, there.

In a world where we have always been convinced to realise how insignificant we are, how would you think we still need anybody else to remind us that we are?


 

Tryst

I am not a man of the present. I am recurrently ripped into part of me that clinged to the lingering past and a bit of me that agonizes the imminent future; particularly when I am undergoing seconds consisting of our tryst. At times we consume together, half of my emotions possess the joy of being surrounded by your existence, and the other half survives the unforeseen blues of fearing that this may not last long as I would like. I am, once again, not a man of the present.Certain piece of me wants to remain in the existing contentment, but the other opposes it with thoughts traversing time and phases I never want to befriend.

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Longship Noir

Slices of cold toast next to pairs of patterned socks, stranded in the corner of the ruffled futon. Few creased notes on the wall prompting how many weeks remained before departure. Windows opened behind untied draperies conveying waft from elsewhere. The loose end of a daybook with picturesque illustrations and few lines of children’s storybook. Empty cartons of almond milk, outmoded jumper with particular men’s odor, colourful inks from leaking pens, Dutch dictionary’s pages found in shreds, bleached trousers hung above fridge; everything was as misplaced as the summer downpour that is occurring outside. Cellphone thrown at the edge of her hammock, suddenly vibrates.

“Hello, there.”

And she just knows rainbow would betide even after cloudburst.


 

Skins

Chairlift’s Bruises humming inside the head all week long. Cells repulsing below and above membranes. All whites to yellows turning brown, gray, black-and-blue. Inferno placed around feet, flames scorching knees. Reds leaking, us withstanding the aches, eyes catching me writhing. Misplaced analgesics. Goodbyes bequeathed here and there, to the favourite pieces of belongings. We feed trashes with gore. Tastes of sands linger.

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On a Thought of Time and Phases

At a certain moment, we might agree with the idea of fluctuating value of things; pre-, syn-, and post- literal rift–as if it happens in tectonics. The past is a crack of dawn which we desire to arrive soon. A momentary lure we know we cannot have for long; a transient bliss departing way too soon. Seconds passing, carrying along the bluish shade, wintry air, chirps of chaffinches, dewdrops on narcissus, and so forth. Along with them is a renewal of yesterday’s sins, all erased together by the entrance of morning. We wish we will have a daybreak forever chained in our sky. We wish it were a gift sent to our dorm, wrapped with sunbeams and sealed with new hopes of new days. We want it to be ours evermore. Continue reading “On a Thought of Time and Phases”