A shitpost of raw and uncensored feelings:

Isn’t it such an ugly truth that two people can really love and adore each other so much, but are never meant to be able to protect nor take care of each other?

Most, though, I guess, can really love and adore each other so much despite realizing that they can never be effortlessly happy together. The extent of how much their feelings would be valid depends on, and only on, how much they’re willing to sacrifice for each other.

But I guess the most painful way to love is understanding how much you two can really love and adore each other—with all those complimenting traits, compatible principles and values, mutual interest and hatred towards all possible kinds of stuff, an agreement of how much each of you is such a million in one and one in a million of an absolutely complete package kind of soul tailored specifically by the universe for each other—but are not meant to show how much that “love” really means.

All the unabashed yet untold, undelivered love that lies behind the great tall wall that you both are trusted to not break.

Like that midnight when you were sleeping only a couple doors away after years of thousands of miles between us; yet here I am, only vomiting words of heartbreaks and affection because of the boundaries we set to stand between us.

I wish I had been able to give you a proper goodnight kiss, a warm goodnight hug, and an affectionate stare while closing your bedroom’s door; instead of a bittersweet, cold conversation in front of your bedroom’s door about how much we’ve been missing out and how far our feelings and understandings towards each other have evolved,

even after sixty-four months.

I love you as you know it, and I’ve been missing you way too badly for way too many days than I can count, and I hope that you do understand how much it would really mean for me if we could stay together for the rest of our lives—with no guilt involved.

Even though you do not seem to be the kind of guy who would be prepared to ask that one question that keeps us from being together once and for all, I still kind of hope you were, because;

my answer has always been a yes.

Moonlit Midnight of Men Murmuring

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

Why, of all implausible excuses she keeps fabricating 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 the 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 promises.

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 remedy he wouldn’t unhand.

Not now.

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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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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Now what if.

I might want to be a museum custodian. But you might be just unhappy about me sticking with the past, even trying to collect every reminiscence of it. Seeing me saving lives we all knew have been over for long, presuming so much from them until the boundary between the right now and the yesterdays gets all blurred. Recalling old times when you were not even part of those scenes yet. What if you, enjoy it a bit too much, until the pleasure of living in the moment just disappears because the bygone days comfort you a bit too much, too? What if death and demise excite you? You insist me.

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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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