The Mist

I am not the sun, for my touch won't pierce through these sheets of grey

And I am not the rain, for I'm not able to wash your doubts away

I'm no raging blizzard, for this fog can't be whitewashed with a coat of snow

And I am not hail, for I'm not able to freeze time over so you can sort out your thoughts

I am not lightning, for I lack the power to destroy all your demons

Yet I am not thunder, for I would never intend my voice to shake your bones

In this freckled mist, I am but a breath of air lingering on your lips to remind you how much you are alive.

In this thickened haze, I am the howling beyond the hills so you'll always know your way home.

In this blinding fog, I am the wind that can only be felt but cannot hold you, hoping  it might be enough.

Crumpled Sheets

You showed me pictures of bedrooms in between breaks at work. Some had gentle rays of light breaking through the curtain fabric, others were enveloped in a blanket of darkness. All were vacant of human presence, just crumpled sheets tossed atop of the bed. I observed how those sheets must have bore the outline of the sleeper, or held his gentle snores and musky scent, stories unkemptly folded between sheets of lackluster whites. Thrown in a heap when one was late to work and didn't have the time to fold them neatly. Drawn loosely over a frightened child on a stormy morning. Cradling the hushed sighs and soft longing of lovers tangled in echoes of each others' warmth. 

In just a few photos of messy sheets, I conjure up snapshots of what it might have meant to you.

Decoy

I only ever wanted to steal you from under his breath and save you from unnecessary pain. I never intended to fall this way. Never.

Clockface

When tasked with the simple objective of illustrating what time means to us, how many amongst us will draw the face of a clock? It's funny, how what we so rightfully depict as time, is the very same concept that destroys the notion of time itself. Time is more than needle hands synchronically travelling the same laps in a monotonous, analog movement. In fact, I could stretch the argument and say that the repeated movement of the clock in itself can be challenged by an alternative school of thought. After all, time is but a unit of measure to fill in the unknown void that is our lifetime. Hence, what one day means to a 3 day old infant, and what it means to a forty year old meant, varies greatly in scale and proportion. To the man, one day is a small fraction of his 14600 day life, in comparison to a third of the infant's entire life (this is also why time seems to speed up more as you get older).Hence in the argument, the concept of 'time' varies greatly from person to person, and the written form of such would be represented by an exponential graph instead of a linear one. However, with such a dynamic unit of measurement, it would be immensely difficult, if not impossible, to reach a uniform consensus when it comes to completing time sensitive tasks. Therefore as a whole, humanity must have created the clock as mainly a framework that we all try to fit ourselves into much like an adult and a baby both trying to fit into a single sized shirt, literally really, with the adult having to squeeze into it while the child has plenty of excess space around him. To put it into context, the clock, instead of a standard unit of measurement, is really more of a bar against which we compare our personal exponential time graphs to, with the result being the difference between the control (the clock) and the variable (each one's individual time). 

Think about it, without the certainty granted to us by the equal hours on the clock, how much differently would we be living our lives?

Silent Consent

There is no consent between the sun and the moon but a silent agreement for one to die every day for the other to awaken. There is no consent between the sand and the waves but a mutual contract for one to beat itself upon the other till it froths at the lips. There is no consent between trees and the birds, but a quiet settling for homes to be built upon branches of branches, for notes to be strung in the veins of leaves, for a secret orchestra to be tucked within the gallows of the forest.

There is no consent necessary, simply the quiet understanding that neither would hurt the other. 

There is no consent between the two stargazers sitting on the bench, simply comfort in the way their bodies collided and offered warmth amidst the chilly air around them. 

There is no consent between the two young souls weaving galaxies between their lips, simply losing breaths as they fall into each other as much as they were falling into the sky.

There was no consent between us, simply resting, closer, closer. Yearning but shy, gently glowing connections that anyone who were to observe us from the galaxies above would've thought we were constellations in the night.

Between the Soil and the Sky

Clandestine;

Shrouded by darkness, many spirits show themselves under the veil of darkness. As the analog hands of the setting sun fall into place in between strips and swirls of crimsons and violets, the sky mutters a soft word before stretching its lips thin and swallowing the world into darkness. What the word is, we don't know, but what we do know is that in those few moments, we temporarily collide into another dimension, and, although we humans are too ignorant to notice, small, bright eyed spirits tiptoe their way all around us and take their places in a ritualistic performance we commonly know as night. 

Last night celebrated another month of the spirit La Luna's return to our world. You and I, we both basked under the handfuls of moonlight she generously scattered over the surface of the damp wooden deck we sat on as we talked about what happiness was made of. The spirits must have wondered that night, as did the clusters of people who left us puzzled eyes, what these kids were doing eating pizza and ice cream with spoons they had to buy in a pack of twenty. We're just kids after all, fascinated by the spirits playing with fire in the sky. Shimmers of light blinking mutedly like dusty lightbulbs in the basement, what a beautiful wonder to behold.

And then you came over and lay against me back to back. In that moment, I swear the sky must have muttered a word because it felt like two worlds collided. Or maybe it was just because we knocked our heads a little the first time, and I wasn't used to the physical closeness, but it all soon melted away like the world did in that moment. It must have been five songs, maybe twenty, later, but still every sigh drew me closer, every graze urged another, desperately searching. Two dying embers seeking their way through layers of clothes and darkness to embrace the other and ignite such raw feelings I thought I'd buried in the past.

In that moment, the spirits must have known, because I opened my eyes and saw them. I saw them leading a parade through the river, ribbons of blue, white, and orange cascading behind them like fish darting through the water. I saw them flying kites on the clouds, the air underneath their sails thickening to a roll of breeze that crackled the fire. And I saw them polish the moon with bucketfuls of light, letting it pour down onto earth and wash over our naked eyes. It was so beautiful, picturesque, sublime.

That night, those three words also crossed my mind as I watched you tiptoe on the railings overlooking the river. And even as I got to walk up to you, I already knew that I wouldn't have been able to hold you closer that night. That night, it was unclear as to whether the spirits entered our world, or we somehow fell into theirs. But it was beautiful, you are beautiful, and now I know what happiness is made of.

Coupla Months

It could have been worse, but why do i feel so dreadful about waiting for a few months. Its not like I haven't done that before, but has the last thing that happened between ck and I imprinted on me that waiting for someone for so long never ends in something good? Am I that afraid of hoping for the best? Its me questioning myself now.

I've never quite liked someone like her all my life. Everyone I've been with (including short-term ones I never really counted) is the kind of girl whose profile boasts confidence, flirtatiousness, and boys queuing round the block, the kind of girl I (quote my ex) "kinda saunter in and charm" my way to, the type of girl seeking a storybook romance. Never once have I liked a girl who likes the same things that I do, or is in more ways than one, a reflection of who I want to be. Kinda strange, but I'm guessing that's why I'm kinda afraid of how this would turn out as well. And also because given the kind of girls I've dated are mostly pretty confident, they're also the kind who's willing to get into a relationship as long as we both knew we were interested in each other. If it worked, it did, if it didn't then fingers crossed we'd remain friends. So I guess it took me by surprise that this girl would wanna wait for some time before deciding. Alright, to be honest, I don't know what I'm so concerned about. Or do I. Am I concerned that if I keep waiting then it'll only end up the way it did with ck, many long months of confusion and uncertainties about anything that went on between us? Or does part of me just want the experience of being in a relationship with such a person.

At the rawest, I suppose its because I've never been told to wait. And I really dislike waiting. God I'm such a selfish bastard.

Paranoia

Never love a paranoid one, because he won't be able to sleep peacefully until he's sure you've reached home safe 

Never love a paranoid one, because he'll want to get into the good books of your father, and be friends with your mother

Never love a paranoid one because he will count the seconds you've been gone, and will know in a heartbeat if your attention has been divided

Never love a paranoid one because he won't believe you when you say 'I love you' for the first three times

Never love a paranoid one because he'll worry you suppress a cringe the first time you hold him

Never love a paranoid one because he'll get frustrated if he stutters while reading you excerpts from your favourite books

Never love a paranoid one because he will spend hours finding a recipe he knows you will like, and then laugh at what he baked because he's afraid you'll be disappointed

Never love a paranoid one because he will want you wholly, even all the hurt and shame you've neatly tucked away under your bed

Never love a paranoid one because he won't be able to sleep at night from thinking too much

Never love a paranoid one because he will wake up sweating in the middle of night knowing I fell asleep on unfinished matters

Never love a paranoid one because he will never quite fathom why he means enough to you to stay

Letters to the Moon

The moon is a funny thing, really. It is something shared by many people, but belongs to no one. Though it is there all the time, it is only experienced by those willing to subject themselves and bask in its glow. And while it celebrates a new romance between the couple on the sidewalk, gives solemn company to the lonely child in her room, and sheds sorrowful stardust over the lost soul of the man jumping off the bridge, we never quite know the secrets of the moon. The moon never complains, the moon never says. And yet there she is, without fail every night, spilling light on the world though we never quite notice. We never ask the moon, what's it like on your dark side?

And in this way, I suppose, you are like the child of the moon. After all, we are all made of stardust and particles of the universe, but I believe you have a greater part of you that's formed by fragments of the moon than anyone else I know.

And I know that you are the moon, and not everyone will find you intriguing. But that shouldn't faze you because it is not up to you to interest the hearts of those too busy staring at their feet. But you should know, there will be people, small clusters of people who gather round circles to tell stories about you as they sit under the great cosmos that they feel blessed to be a part of.

And I know that you are the moon, and you will often be forgotten as people trudge through the buzzing monotony of their lives. But you shouldn't worry, for when they get lonely or afraid of the dark, it is you to which they will turn and seek comfort. You are a constant, even when they forget, and let me tell you a secret: you're in all the favourite books that they read to their children when they cannot fall asleep at night.

And I know that you are the moon, and the weight of the world might sometimes be too heavy for your shoulders to bear. But never let that hurt you because it was never your fault that the world bore so many problems. But there are people, people like me, who write poetry about the craters on your skin, in pathetic hopes that small words will make up for this wretched world.

And I know you are the moon, and I know sometimes you're dealt with more than you can handle, but I know that you are strong beyond our wildest imaginations. And even when you're gone some nights, I hope you know that somewhere down on earth, there's a boy waiting for you with open arms and a little hole inside him where you should be. And I know that you're the moon, and that's extraordinary enough for me.

Number Four.

They always said that women make perfect killers. Well, no they didn't, I made that up. But there's something so allusive about a great woman that makes them ideal for the kill. The smarter they are, the more dangerous they are. They more beautiful they are, the more easily people fall prey. The gentler they are, the less traces they leave behind. And the greatest killers might be the ones who looks nothing more than just another girl next door.

He's always known the girl next door, maybe their moms were classmates in high school, or maybe he's written poems under the covers about her best friend for a year and a half. But he's never quite taken a second look at this girl because even though she was always there, she's always just, well, there. Now everybody likes a pretty girl, but this boy had his head way up in the clouds. He was drawn to the intelligence, strength, and resilience of the working lady, and in his mighty quest in courtship of such a specimen, he found himself galloping his horses some fine years ahead into the horizon. He cast his mind to a will of iron, and with it, he trudged forth into a land forbidden by worried mothers and fathers afraid of the lost. He took his tongue like the strings of a dusty violin, and tuned it so that each note rang out a like silken thread between an angel's lips. Tedious work never broke him, and a copious amount of sweat, blood, and tears poured into hours each day chiselled his body into a brazen statue carved by the worker of god himself. But this iron plated man and his powerful golden stallion never got the hand, nor did the heavy timber doors to the castle ever allow them to proceed, and eventually, they left, empty handed, a boy and his mere country horse exiled from the land of unrequited love and unforgiving chances.

How apt it was that it drizzled sheets of grey on the streets below his house that day when he felt his world crumble beneath his tired feet. The cool pane of glass he rested his forehead on gave a little breath of exasperation, not unlike his as he counted scores with the raindrops racing their way down his window. How strange is, his thoughts whispered, as he watched his neighbour peel her window open and, a little clumsily, made her way up on the window sill. She was small girl, about a head shorter than he was, and he wasn't very tall to begin with. She's climbing up to the roof, he thought. She had beaten feet, a dancer, maybe, but her precarious stature scampering up to her roof made him think twice about his judgements. Silly girl, his breath fogged up a circle on the window, who would climb up to the roof on a rainy day? I would, his mind confessed. A while later, another figure appeared next to her on the rooftop, a male from the appearance of it, and she shifted her posture slightly. Boyfriend, maybe. He didn't know why, but the gnarl of annoyance lulled at the pit of his stomach. Great, now another one enjoys sitting in the rain too.

Some people find comfort in solitude to get over a heartbreak, while others drowned themselves in alcohol to escape the sadness and for the boy, the window became his shot of morphine that made each day a little more bearable than the last. He watched as his neighbour spilled her mind with watercolour lines onto mounted canvasses that seemed almost larger than herself and scowled a little at all the forgotten art lessons he left behind in elementary school. He listened and cringed a little as she struck the chords on her guitar a little too loudly, and allowed himself to smile for the first time as he belted out words on his own guitar to songs he made sure he could play better than she did. And he felt, that night as the girl next door scrambled up to the roof once more, a dire urge he's never felt before. For the first time in his life, he pushed open the windows and took a deep breath. It was like a soft flutter of icy butterfly wings inside his lungs as his eyes adjusted to the deep blue hues of the night and shadows. Clumsily but hastily, he made his way up to his roof, feet a scramble of cluttered steps as he finally reached the top. How apt it was in that moment, that he looked up at the glowing heavenly body above him, when he heard her gasp "the moon!". 

And how lovely it was, joining the punctures in the sky's canvas, not a boy and a girl from next door, but children of a universe too complicated for them to understand, two souls in pursuit of simple happiness.