sunshine, daisies, butter mellow

And for once,
all I ever wanted
is the kind of love
that rushes to me—
relentless,
brave,
unwavering,
sure.
The kind of love that carries no shadow of doubt.
One that is fearless and bold.
One that stays and never leaves when things get difficult.
One that never questions, but asserts.
After all these years of experiencing love
in different shapes and forms,
which are all true and nonetheless valid,
I realize:
This is the kind of love I want.

I’m afraid I have exhausted my interest.
The excitement at the sight of a notification from you
has worn its gears down to a dull rotation—
once a spark through the circuitry,
now only the dry click of a relay.
Every conversation turns the same cog,
the same tired sequence,
the same mechanical hum.
It feels like a chore.
Like forcing rusted teeth to mesh.
Banters could perhaps resuscitate
this dying interest—
coax the dead thing back to life.
But the boredom is too deep.
The gears only grind.
The bearings only shriek.
Something in me has already
switched itself off.

I hate that despite my vague memory of that day,
I can still clearly recall the sparkle in your eyes when we first met.
You came up to me, then, in your own quiet way,
and asked me the question owed, your voice laced with fret.

“What’s your favorite song?”
I said, “Parallel Universe,” which, of course, you didn’t know.
Who would have thought that one small question
would launch years of ambiguity in tow?

Me, running. You, returning.
Funny how the song was all about timing—
because here we are, against all logic,
still trying, still wondering where this goes,
still not quite ready to let it go.

I guess there's an epidemic
in the male demographic—
a fever for a woman to call his own,
a hand to hold, a name to wear,
a ring to make the promise known.
Yet when she comes,
with oceans in her eyes
and constellations in her head,
he lets the tide pull her away
and leaves the stars unread.
But perhaps her compass pointed
somewhere deeper than his shore;
the purpose that she carried
was more than he could bear—
so he went looking for a life partner
and lost the woman already there.

You didn’t feel loved when I judged how you dressed.
I didn’t feel loved when you walked ahead of me into the grocery without waiting.
You didn’t feel loved when I couldn’t be impressed by you.
I didn’t feel loved when you stopped trying to impress me.
You didn’t feel loved when I asked you to pick me up in the storm while you were working.
I didn’t feel loved when you didn’t, and told me to just take care,
while I was fighting my way home for six hours.
You didn’t feel loved when I turned small things into big fights.
I didn’t feel loved when you slept while I cried at night
and stopped trying to fix what was breaking.
You didn’t feel loved when I couldn’t listen,
when I was stubborn.
I didn’t feel loved when you stopped understanding me,
when “yes” slowly disappeared from my wishes.
And somewhere along the way,
we got lost in translation.
Two people speaking,
but neither feeling loved at all.
One felt like they were never enough.
The other felt like they were always too much.

In-betweens are shrouded with mystery,
But one thing will always remain clear to me:
I will walk away
When a man cannot find his way,
Constantly at war with himself
To ever make room for me.

The unrushed silence lifted the fog.
I see it clearly now, like a nearby town.
Stars pierced the dust,
and I found my bearing by the northern sky.

I want you to come home to me
whenever you are feeling weary.
It is not my wish
to bemuse you with perplexity.
This, all in the name of loving as I am—
without withholding,
without disguise—
and in the hope
that you will love me, in return,
for all that meets your eye.

Rain and storm may come,
yet I long to remain still and secure
Because I have learned
that even the fiercest weather
must surrender its dust,
and what endures
is the way home.

One hundred and eighty-six years together,
and still it wasn't enough for Rocky.
Harry knew it, too:
when you find the one
you want the rest of your life with,
you want it to start now.

So what the heck
are we waiting for?

Rooftops, spaces
I have been to places.
Cigarettes, ashtrays
I did roll some dices.

Thoughts have been worn down to their edges.
There’s a need to indulge in one’s vices.

Nicotine, buzzing.
The sound of tobacco burning.
Flame, lighter.
I hear it gently crackling.

Call this poison fatal and killing—
but somehow, this is the closest I get to living.

Love—it inches towards me
in slow and calm melodies.
It raises the anxiety.
Love never felt like this on my skin.

Danger. Danger.
That is what it is to me.

So I run with all my might,
away from love, out of fright.

Sought for affection;
Sought for warmth.
In moments of cold and isolation,
I yearned for a shoulder to lean upon.
I wanted to reach out and arms would wrap around;
Make me feel safe, and
make me feel found.
But every time someone comes to do the deed,
Pride would devour the weakness in me,
And what I would do
was push him away, make sure he leaves.
You are the glitch.
You have become the very person I never want of myself to get rid.

For a little while
let me be lonely.
For a little while
let me be.
O this insatiable heart
is yearning for water to flow
finally–
what day, what month,
what year will that be?
Until now I wonder,
when will this sadness flee?
This drought is taking longer than expected
and little by little, taking, consuming me.

I am not roses, lilacs, nor cherry trees
By no means am I beautiful at day
For such vigor is impossible for my reach
I am not a perfect metaphor for them
I do not resemble in any way the petals,
how they bloom ever so flawlessly,
or the leaves, for I cannot mimic their
spotlessness
Though sun shines upon the grassland, and the whole earth, including me,
I remain just an observer; a mere wonderer
I will never acquire a beauty as immense, as innocent, as Mother Nature.

I think the part that always cuts through me is the last time I saw you.
Had I known it would be the last, I would have looked into your eyes a little longer — memorized the way they held me. I would have told you to take care of yourself, to be patient on your motorcycle, to come home safely every single time.
I would have asked you to pass a message to your mom — to tell her I love her, too.
I would have hugged you five seconds longer.
No — ten.
Give me ten more seconds to memorize your scent, to remember how it felt to have my arms wrapped around you and yours around me.
I would have given a small speech about how grateful I am to have met you — how knowing you changed me in ways I didn’t even understand yet.
I would have said, “I love you.”
If only I had known it was the last time.
Did you know then it was the last you’d see me, too?

Suddenly, I love walking.
The city doesn’t ask questions—
lights flicker, cars pass,
strangers keep their distance.
Point A to Point B,
as if destinations matter.
Crosswalks, highways, streets,
and you—
still everywhere I step.
Five kilometers per hour.
Not running.
Not being followed.
Just moving slow enough
for the memories
to keep up.
Reliving.
Not healing.
Trying to loosen a heart
that hasn’t yet learned
how to stop
loving you.

The sleepless nights have ended
and have turned into dreamless slumbers.
The harrowing thoughts of you and her
have now become faint and harmless memories.
Sorrow in my heart, now just silent echoes.
My soul surrendered fully to Saturn and the stars,
spangling beyond the fabric of the skies.
My eyes have since then never looked back.
I will never look back.
But if I have to look at you,
believe that it will still ache,
for you carry the records of a supernova in year ’26.
Such a death was never heard on Earth,
for it sounded like muffled screams
and sadness beyond my wildest dreams.
No Hubble was there to
witness—
just you and me.

Can we start a year with a clean slate?
Forget the past and begin a life without hate?
Can we, for once, not look at each other’s mistakes?
And let the bad memories just disintegrate?

A fresh year is coming, it’s called 2021.
We were all dejected by the things brought to us by the previous one.
We were tried and challenged, we suffered, yes,
But that does not mean we failed on the test.

I hope that this year, you will all be brave
To take on its obstacles so victory you may proclaim
Life may be hard on you and it gets harder each day
But show life who you are–show life what you’re made.

I adore you—
truly, madly, deeply.
Your voice is a gentle refuge,
your words the warmth
that finds me on my coldest days,
the quiet smile
my heart has almost forgotten.
Yet this heart
is still learning how to heal.
The past has not loosened its grip;
it seeps into the present,
bleeding through every hopeful moment,
turning tenderness into trembling.
So I come to you
not with a whole heart,
but with the fragments
I have gathered in shaking hands—
each piece stitched together
with patience,
with longing,
with all the strength I could find.
It is all I have.
If I place these broken pieces
into your hands—
will they finally become enough?

I think I’m falling in love with the pain,
Pining and anticipation feels addictive.
The world is slowly moving, but not in vain;
This heart may be broken, but not vindictive.

The sun and the sky are calm in stillness;
The air, the wind—I feel their presence.
I am slowly accepting the ending,
Slowly… slowly…

White
The first color I see as I blink my eyes,
adjusting my pupils to the spotless, radiant light.

Green
I go outside.
People are running around the oval;
then I hear a kid cry.
The wings of the butterfly
protrude with might.
Go on, little creature,
let them see you fly.

Gray
The color of clay,
as dull as when I began my day.
Rigid bodies, Newton, they always say—
how much more can this be mundane?

Pink
It’s about to end.
Sunset colors fill and paint the heavens.
The beauty it holds, I cannot fathom enough,
but it soothes the weariness
my body succumbs to.

Feelings, adrenaline—
When they are surging,
these calloused fingers begin searching
for a pen to bleed with
and a page to spill into.
For when I am left to my own devices,
the words I keep from the world
come rushing through,
like a flood
my heart has only learned
to contain on paper.

I’d like to hazard a guess
That perhaps I’m already doomed.
For in this long silence,
My feelings have only just bloomed.

Aha, my love, so it is indeed possible—
to love you,
to care for you,
and still choose myself.

For now,
I will revel in limbo—
flowing and letting life unfold,
wanting you, yet unburdened
by the need for us to happen.

I’ll give it another night,
and another, and another.
I’ll try with all my might
to release you in every final hour.
I would surmise
that time, my dear, was never on our side.

When you breathe the air inside his room,
Does it reek of my bloodless wound?

Everyone would probably have a say,
Tell you I’m the witch, the bitch, the source of decay.

My ghost must still be there,
In her white dress, pale skin, starkly bare.

In the night, do you hear my dying moan?
Can you imagine how he undoes me to the bone?
His rage, his jealousy, his self-loathe—
My wrist breaking, a crimson rose.

My image may not be in any frame hung on his wall,
But tell me, when you are in there, does it sometimes feel cold?

Something died there.