A tune

I wish to sing you a tune

a melody of distinction

In hopes you’ll never forget

when the days seem long

the nights not soon enough

That you stand apart

from all the rest

like no other I’ve

ever met

No one

I’ve ever known

A tune of a sort

to express a feeling

I swore was lost

now made anew.

And If one day

we should wake up

to have forgotten

that I should say

there once was a love

so grand

so undeserving

And it was right there

in the palms of my hands.

Who is this?

What defines a true companion, I wonder? Is it in a room full of people with a drink in their hands, drunk on the nightlife of the weekend? Does it exist in a person who is willing to pull back your hair while you puke into a urine stained toilet? Scurrying away like rats back to their mundane existence of the daylight hours; they do not seem to exist when the sun returns to the grand stage of blue skies. You two may as well belong to different worlds, only coming together for a moment of oblivion. Who is this companion?

 

Here is where it starts.

I need someone to write to. I am in a dire need of a muse. A perfect companion for this melancholy that never disappears. Is this my sickness? Sometimes it feels as though these sad eyes are an inheritance of mine. That for me, a beautiful happiness will always dance with a beautiful sadness. It is incredibly difficult to admit to loneliness. Living in the confines of yellow stained walls and green gates as barriers from the world. With creaks only from the sound of my own footstep. When I cry, I find myself laughing almost as hysterically as I am crying. I have never been able to figure out whether I find sadness laughable or hysteria a fitting symbol. Please, I ask that you do not look upon this as simply a young girl’s jaded perspective of the world. Oh poor girl, so broken so young. If only this universal, this internal aching for love was decoded from the first heartache. If only the bitter taste left behind was enough for us to walk away and never look back. I want it to be known, I have no particular image or words that I wish to sway your mind with. I think I wait too long to express simple thoughts; I end up giving one of the most tangled explanations as to why the setting of the sun stirs in me an overwhelming desire to cry. I am inspired by this coffee shop, by its orange, black and brown colors. How there are chess boards and pieces hung up as decorative, about the dim florescent lighting and the row of computers intended for gaming. I want to pen down, how such a strange harmony is so beautiful to me. I wish to write about a man who seems to me more of a dream every single day, how it overwhelms me. If kindness could speak through just a gaze, and tenderness through a gentle caress, I would dare say that he must be some blessing bestowed to me from above. I won’t lie to myself and say such things as ‘I have never felt such a thing before’ but I feel almost remorseful that these feelings were ever reserved for someone else. If a face that you were once so familiar with returns back to the crowd after love has long since left, the reminder is so light; that time feels like it was lived by someone else and you were only an onlooker to its crumpling.

Worlds, Worlds

Beautiful darling

is this the life you’ve always wished for?

I hope this is the world

you’ve toiled to find.

You there, long ago,

is there a hint of me left

in restless memories?

Of hands that unraveled,

eyes that saw through.

In a lonesome that comforts.

Words that pierced

hearts for souls.

A drink in proposal,

lips to sworn,

a velleity in diverged roads.

Sweet nostalgia of mine,

where did those times go?

What bittersweet melancholy it is

to yearn for things past.

Familiar feelings just the same

I could have never seen this coming. What an absolutely insignificant moment that was in my mind, as I saw him there from the height of a pedestal in my delusioned sense of esteem. I proceeded to dance for this handsome stranger who seemed to be unable to pull his eyes from me. He had extraordinary passion locked in his eyes, but appeared in an unseeming shallow charm. I remain unmoved. For who is he that I should be takened by? As this was no more than mutual appreciation for beauty without faces or soul. An art that demands admiration but warns against imitation. His eyes wandered slowly from every inch of my exposed skin as though in awe, and I smirk in a learned arrogance. But as soon as his eyes met mine I also met his. Something strange crept over me, a desire to know, to meet this intrigument as if it had a past encounter. So I bent down from the couple of feet I felt comforted by, and introduced myself with curious eyes.

And I’ve wished for things I did not need

I told myself far earlier today that nights like these with its dreamlike thoughts should never go undocumented, unwrittened, undelusioned. Though there is nothing lovely about tonight, inspiration has crept into my veins and stole my sight and it asks that I play along. My mind is like a record player stuck on repeat and I bear its tunes of “what ifs” and “if only.” Nostalgia whispered sweetly in my ears tonight and it asked that I joined it in reminiscience, in moments of misplaced passions and of fires that burned my heart wildly. So I went on a stroll through pages of forgotten conversations, pictures that captured crooked smiles and of individuals that held my soul in enamour. I could never explain correctly why I cradle the memory of he and I with such tenderness. Its a beautiful hideous scar, a portrait of desires at its absolute and crippling that I could never treat cruelly. And It is a yearning, really, for the reconciliation of a soul and its senses long buried.

All that I am

I was sitting in the living room of an old friend tonight, as I listened intently on his words of longing and wisdom, I was caught in mesmerization of a small fishtank a few feet from me.  A dazzling view it was. I always thought how tragic, the life of a fish must be! It must contend to a life of repetition and aimlessness. Might it be that the beautiful variety of them swim so peacefully in a set perimeter, while it is man that is unbound yet wander in confusion? What is this tragedy if not a great paradoxal one, laughable that any of us should compare ourselves to the heavens and stars.  As I was staring into the looking glass of life, I wondered why humans have such a morbid perception of death. It was as if the motion that compelled the fishes to move along and back around stirred in me a longing for repetition, a desire to desire such an absurd course, if fate heard us all with sympathetic ears. “Oh please, allow me to remember what it was to feel happiness.”