We could complicate things by simply having the guts to confess to each other that the fondness we find towards each other is mutual. We could perplex the boundary between right or wrong by unwisely choosing to juxtapose our feelings and logic; senses and intuition; chances and risks. We could obliterate the boundaries between us,
pursuit of settlement,
if only we both reckon that this very moment of our intersection exists to be treasured, despite the likelihood of the awry epilogue.
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.
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
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.
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?
Her third Hogmanay. She thought she was as misplaced as the char inside her cylix. Besides, who else would drink such herbal tea instead of whiskey on a New Year’s eve in Scotland? Along with its vintageous, made-in-Greece cup that nobody nowadays would commonly own?
Continue reading “Skyrocketed”
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.
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?
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.
Continue reading “Tryst”