She was perfect in every single way I could possibly think of. Perfect in the way she stands under the golden sunlight, perfect in the way she flicks her hair off her shoulder. I asked her once, “Why do your eyes resemble galaxies?” She answered with only a laugh, and all the stars in her eyes were set aflame.
She was the dream of every Greek sculptor. She was the distance of the earth from the sun. She was all I never wanted, but all I want now. And every time I tell her, almost about three times now, about how much I want to hold her hand, she laughs and tells me, “You only want the galaxies from afar.”
He always liked the color blue. He liked how her eyes were blue. He liked the serene blue of the early morning sky, and the mysterious blue of the sea. He liked the turquoise-blue color of the sun dress she wore on their first date. He liked the blue of fading bruises on her neck. He even liked the blue that painted her face sometimes.
He never liked brown, though. He hated the brown of the mud that stained his white shoes. He hated the brown-black of coffee. He hated the light brown of the chocolate he offered to his first valentine. He hated the brown of his parents’ wooden house. He especially hated the brown of the dried blood on her arm.
But I love brown. I love the deep brown of his eyes, and the golden brown of his hair. I love the brown of the dirt we once lied on, and the brown of faded photographs. I love the brown of his lips sometimes. I love the brown of withering book covers, and the leather brown of my year-old satchel. I especially love the hideous brown shirt he wore the first and only time he held my hand.
I wonder if that was why he never looked at me with more than a warm smile. Warm, like the summer breeze, but he preferred the winter. I wonder if the coffee I drink keeps him from falling in love with me. Maybe I should wear black boots instead, or stain my lips with a pinker shade. Maybe this time he’ll love me.
he doesn’t love me
just because he doesn’t
simple as that-
but I can’t settle
for the reason of just because
otherwise I will never again believe
that there is anything about me
to love at all.)
Poor little rich girl rings in my head sometimes. Like right now. I’m not rich, by any means. But I’m fortunate enough. I’m fortunate enough to have not experienced severe hunger. Not to shiver under the rain. Not to have my house ruined by rain water. I’m fortunate, and I’ll be damned if I take it for granted because I don’t.
My family and I were on the way home from the mall. We had just watched The Bourne Legacy starring Jeremy Renner (I wouldn’t ponder too much on this.) I was looking out the window out of habit, and the magnitude of the catastrophe hit me hard. The sky was dark and gray, and I can’t remember the last time it wasn’t such. The roads were flooded, but not too heavily in our area, thankfully.
A thought came to my mind, a thought I’ve never really entertain before: what if the world is ending?
Personally, I don’t believe in the apocalypse. I’m not religious either so I don’t believe in His coming. But it was an interesting question, a baffling thought to occupy myself with during these times.
What if the world is ending? It is 2012 after all, the rumored year that the apocalypse will take place.
What would you do if it will happen, if you find out that the world will crack beneath your feet- all your dreams and aspirations and hopes fading in front of your eyes- what would you do before then?
I’ve never really told anyone how much how I love the way naked bodies lie together. The way a hand leaves waves on bare skin, the way breaths send shivers down arched backs. I love how soft kisses say as much as love letters do, and how breathing in sync feels like violins and harps and angel choirs. I love how a touch can drown someone in sensations before thought impossible, and how words aren’t necessary to convey anything.
My fingers will tell you how beautiful you are- your jawline, the curve of your neck; my lips will tell you all that I could never say in words- I could lose myself in your skin, I love you so much—-
I love seeing you completely undone, completely wrung out, completely vulnerable and completely mine. But we all know I’m yours as you are mine, our limbs like vines, our hearts in each other’s mouths. There’s nothing more beautiful than us when we’re together, our bodies one, connected at the fingertips and the waists. Let me get lost in your embrace, and the coffee-stained teeth of yours, in those secret corners in your body. Let me in, and I’ll do the same, and let us find that place we can both call ours.
I’m not going to let this go. I’m going to hold on with all my wounded hands, with all my nomadic soul. I’m never going to slip from the edge, no matter how much the abyss threatens to swallow, no matter how much the rock creaks under my shaky fingers. I will hold on to this, to now, to you.
In falling in love, the thing we fear the most about it is realizing the moment that we are slowly slipping out. It always starts so exciting, like witnessing a championship game. We all eagerly wait for the result- whether we win or we lose. The loss stings like an open wound, and will scar for the rest of our lives. We will always remember the moment their eyes glistened in apology, and when hearts turned to shards, and when we do, we are cut again. On the other hand, the victory is rewarded with late-night conversations and erratic heart beats. Beepbeepbeep, the heart monitor would go. But eventually, reality sets in and calms your system, and the heart slows its abnormal pace. The late-night conversations disappear, and food will seem to have lost its taste. The glass is now half empty, and I love yous are but hollow words. There is a brief, glorious moment at the summit of the mountain- the subtle glances and the butterfly kisses- but eventually gravity will pull us back down, and we’ll hit the rocks that constantly tell us, it’s over, it’s over, you have to let go, and you do, which not the easiest thing in the world. You don’t want to leave the beautiful summit, but the grass has lost its appeal. You stop at the foot of the mountain, shout to the one at the summit, and leave them to find their way down.
There is no love, but only the rise and fall of our heart beats, the rise and fall of our chests in sync, and the presence and disappearance of hope and happiness that often trick us into believing that love exists.
I can’t remember a time
When I didn’t fight for it
When I didn’t fight for him
For her, or whoever they choose to be
I didn’t realize the depth of it
Until I too
Began fighting for myself
I will fear the sunset
I will fear sleep
I will fear my heart speeding up
The memory of you will sting like an open wound
Bright irises will turn to midnight
And smiles will only be remnants of years past
I will fill lungs with my final breath
I will never see the light again
I will forget who I am
I will be beneath your feet
I will be above your head
I will be inside your jar
I won’t be
And that’s okay.