eclipse

YOU ARE A POET and a linguist. And I am just another broken boy in love with the night sky. Lost, looking up, always. You are the poetry I can only attempt to write. I know that now. But you are also the phases of the moon, and I wax and wane with you as I lie on this rust-spangled tin roof, looking up still, in constant anticipation for the first sliver of borrowed light.

still

I LOVE YOU and I will love you, because my heart says so, because I still can. I will never think. Not tonight. Not ever. The current still flows in the same direction. To you. There is no point going back, no sense in evasion. This is my home now. You might say this is pointless, a shout to the void. But maybe you’re my black hole. Maybe this is what it truly means to be foolish, or to truly love someone, which would mean I have no choice. I just love. You probably don’t want it but you have no choice either. However, this is still the best option. To let my heart hang out there, beats faint in the wind, flailing, exposed to the elements. To feel pain until my seams burst, my cracks giving way. Maybe that’s what I need. To actually break and pick myself up from the floor with my bare hands, in the hope of finding answers, acceptance waiting underneath the broken pieces. So tonight, I will love you until the next second, the next phase of the moon, the next parallel universe. Because my heart says so. Because I still can. My heart is still full.

of stars and infinities

I HAVE DECIDED that John Green's The Fault in our Stars is fairly far from just an 'okay' read. I find it funny, tragic, and mentally stimulating. Frank as it is honest, it encourages the reader to see things logically, within reason, but not lose the 'heart' aspect of things, and through Gus and Hazel, Green was able to create a third space in which these two realms combine and are reconciled - a tiny infinity which should be experienced by everyone with someone, at least once, in this life so fragile.

when the stars go blue

WHEN YOU LISTEN TO A SONG and it stirs up a memory - a fleeting image at first, and then slowly, like gathering dust, takes on a perceivable form, almost solid really. And then it builds up from within your consciousness then down to your chest, swelling up compressing your heart pushing the walls of your lungs.

 And then you exhale, left in wonder, of the feeling you just felt, beautiful and abstract, that now has become just a part of everything else sucked in time. Yes. That is how I would describe nostalgia.

the only moment we were alone

THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I get to watch you sleep, I realize, ever wondering how much of you do I really know, how much of you remains a secret, your doors and locks – puzzles I am not supposed to solve. I am alone…with you. There is no sound or wind even, just a faint sliver of moonlight filtering through curtains, on your skin as if vaporizing upon contact. Now, it’s just us, occupying the same space in time. Now, the world drifts away into the night, diminishing into a mere echo of a story – untold, phantom whispers bouncing back and forth on the walls of the universe. I develop a heightened sense of awareness, of shadows leaving marks on the walls, of the fact that we are breathing the same air, of the stretch of bed sheet that separates us like an ocean, too treacherous for anyone to cross. I memorize your curves, your edges, your eclipses underneath the sheets; every ripple, locks of hair beautifully falling across your face sending me into a bittersweet reverie of how beautiful you already are from this distance that stretched out like the heavens, of how in this only moment we are alone, I ache for your heartbeats, hoping that somewhere, between a lub and a dub, a gap would open, just enough for me to walk through and be truly yours.