Maybe we’re like pieces of cloth, some silk velvet and others, plain cotton. The bonds we build with people an act of sewing a little part of us on their cloths. Materials that thread as we draw closer together, love and commitment causing mesmerising embroidery to be woven.

(perhaps that’s the reason why when people walk out of our lives, a part of us is ripped and torn impossibly apart)


I understand now, what is it like to be loved by having something precious taken away. More than ever is the desire growing to fight the unfairness of things, yet it is not armour I am to pick up, but to lay down. This fist curled tight, pray for it to soften and unwind into graceful patience. There is much to learn still in this turbulence, where feelings and actions do not seem to comply, that distance is by far the most affectionate while closeness is hoped for. That in spite of apparent absence, how safe I remain.

Here, a confession to this space: how incredibly deep do I truly miss, yet this is where I choose to stay until our dark skies turn into pale grey.


I am irrefutably shy, in spite of possible bold first impressions and sporadic confessions of honesty, unwavering words and pinpoint clarity.

In a room filled with people gravitating in spaces not mine alone, it takes all of me to hold still and breathe. I am unable to understand how can one just co-exist in situations unplanned, in places new. Anchors I look for, to steady the tumultuous waves of my anxious heartbeat.

You are safe now, are the words whispered, is the hand that holds mine, are the eyes glancing quietly, is the folded origami crane before me.

And though I fear the impending darkness, I know that these things will keep me secure for a little longer.


Not all secrets have to be filled with the weight of a drowned corpse, guilt hanging on the leg one cannot shake loose. I am accustomed to keeping sad things secret, but more so for the happy things too.

There’s something about preciousness that cannot be shared with others, lest beauty and wonder is lost. Don’t gain partial ownership or the ability to change it up, let it stay an unbroken memory for the cold days ahead. I am no fool, to leave a gem on the beach for the enchanting ocean to steal.

Call me selfish, and I will perhaps find no heart to deny — for sometimes we hold on so tightly until the insides of our palms make crescent cries. Take a look at what is photographed in quiet, the boundless whispers stalking across the mind. The things to immortalise.

I don’t know about you (if you exist), but for me? With numbers need not be told, I have stood in a place watching, hoping to remember for always.