My thoughts won’t let me sleep.

179.

How quickly do I forget that the beauty of space is its menace itself: the void and all the emptiness lurking within. If we were planets I’m no longer sure if we orbit the same line.

I miss you, this I wish to say in a heartbeat, in the reach of a hand hesitant, but I don’t know where to stand in this room where silence is the loudest noise. Overcome by sorrows not mine to hold for it keeps close like a shadow.

Now — will the same gravity that drew us together, draw us apart?

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173.

You have taught what it means to comfort a soul, how raw and impossible it is to embrace, but to do it anyway because of love.

Call to me in the darkness just to hear something real, keep the line alive even if you can barely breathe. Though the clouds shade the night sky it’s not as though you no longer exist.

Your sadness to me is magnetic, the way the moon has a pull on the tides of earth.

Tell me — am I unbearably cruel to lean into your pain, just to know you’re still here?

Washing arms that bleed from cuts self-inflicted, to navigate spoonfuls of food so that you would have the stomach to at least try. Come, align your fidgety fingertips with mine so that with the other we can count the number of blue cars whizzing past the street, just because it’s your favourite colour, just because it’ll keep you next to me, just so you can anchor yourself in control.

The tears streaming down cheeks say that you can feel, this by far better than the days you won’t even turn at the sound of your name. I will hold you, desperately so when your life is going off the rails, give me a rope and I promise to never let you sink into a quiet nothing. My heartbeat is a lullaby that is yours to keep, if yours is all but breaking into a hollowness that cannot be filled.

So please keep your shadow beside me. If you haven’t realised it yet, remember to stay safe — because I like being alive at the same time as you.

172.

I know what it is like to cradle regret

To search for a ghost long gone

Shyly keeping the umbrella of two to oneself

Wavering in grey principles

Trapped in the labyrinth of the mind.

 

And yet I know also to grab on to chances

To say I miss you more than ever

Sending the letter written hastily

Hand reaching out despite not knowing

Leaving doubts and fears behind.

 

Sometimes chances and regrets are going to look the same but until I know what lies in my hands, I will choose to stay.

165.

While they say that time is a construct, it’s difficult to think of it that way.

Time zones have a way of dividing everything: geography, space, time, feelings.

While I’m struggling through today, you’re already one foot into tomorrow.

Time zones have a way of making one feel left behind.

minus seven; one year ago

160.

Is it preposterous that I am in want to protect you?

More so when it is only recent that I have come to know you. Somehow, slowly through moments miniscule, you have become unexpectedly dear to me. From the impulsive lending of the cap to asking if I’m doing okay, there are various sides to your easily won smile. The little things you do, showing that you care. Leaning forward, running to offer aid.

Came to me in the night you did, and I am grateful. Showing me a shadow that might cause alarm and distress, but it only made me want to hold you closer. Give me time, let me gather much armour, sword and shield to keep these disturbances away. Bring with us a light that never ends.

Sitting by the table just there, I cannot help but to watch you. Note the seldom serious look and the handsome haircut. Your hands, they relax on the surface before the next conversation gets them into expressive gestures. Quietly laugh.

Yes, perhaps it is preposterous to yearn protecting you. Though you stand tall and seemingly immovable, this is what you have done. Have me drawing one step closer.

140.

El Roi; the God who sees me.

Here when breath finds itself lost in a crowd, when feet melt into water and fall sideways. Watching these hands fail to grip the balloons of dreams and have them popping in the intensified air. This yarn of thought scrambled, disconsolate, eventually frayed. Crease all the papers into attempted perfect folds, run the life that never is.

Six feet under in the space I’m supposed to call home.

Flower on the wall, grown strange and peculiar. Remember to stand tall, raise the hand of one’s heart, even when it quivers interminably. Speak in words that don’t exist, for more so is none important. The dark and the shadows find shape in gentle light. The hand outstretched that never intrudes the bubble.

I know just the special little something for you, He whispers lovingly.

Look up and know.

El Roi; the God who sees me.

134.

An old piece demanding attention. I’ve given in.

An owlish stare belonged to a brunette standing by the tree. She was gazing at some who were holding their respective lanterns. Then, as if one had uttered a miserable excuse of a joke, they laughed uncontrollably before resuming their journey. Certainly they were going for the lantern festival. The frosh in the picturesque park eventually allowed a sigh to articulate.

Admittedly, she knew that if she wanted to go, she just would. The student wasn’t too particular when it pertained to company, and solitude would have been her first choice. Nevertheless, it would be evident for all to see that she wasn’t going to move. A part of her perpetually wondered as to why, oh why, that she continued being stubbornly stuck in the pages of yesterday and tomorrow simultaneously. It was ridiculous and repetitive to recognise that the past, albeit important, had its limits when one considered the present timeline. And the future was definitely a matter so terribly delicate, comparable to a fragile framework collapsing at the whim of a wind’s whisper. Preposterous. Stuck in her thoughts, then and there did a familiar explosion resound. The brunette looked toward the horizon and her eyes widened in wonderment.

Fireworks.

Works of fire.

How horrible that a childish play of words threatened a diminutive smile to surface. Just so horrible, because it was probable that this was another reason why she decided against attending. She often thought that inanimate things could represent a human’s want or need, example being a blanket picturing warmth.

So did fireworks. They were more than a rich person’s way of finding visual entertainment. It was definitely a bearer of definitions larger than the space they occupied in the night sky. In her eyes, they were symbols of interminable warmth and renewal, perhaps even resembling a burst of emotion. An incandescent flame that burned passionately, in ardent adoration and everything like that. Sappiness was not the issue at hand. The real one was this.

Maybe she had been afraid that if she had gone there, being under those lucent lights and burst of gleaming sparks, it would make the brunette find a part of herself that she never wanted to discover. A passion she would rather live without. Maybe there was the possibility that if there was a someone by her side, the adrenaline rush embedded within would play tricks on her mind, causing her to feel and think of things she rendered unnecessary.

Then she laughed, a tinkling chime that sounded musical until a seemingly choked voice marred the expression. The forming of a supposedly easy laugh at absurdity had ended with sadness. Maybe it was both, for the girl herself had no longer known if it had been laughter or tears after all. Nevertheless, whatever it had been, the vibrant explosion of colours were capable of inducing distraction, even if it was only finite in value. Deep down, she knew that it was so likely that she was shortchanging her own self for no appropriate reason.

This destructive display of artwork — had it always been this pretty?