let me lean against your torso
as I fight the war inside my head,
let me rest it on your shoulder,
heavy with the pain
of the suffering, of the wails on the streets.
let me close my eyes for a moment,
and escape it, just for a second.
let me let you hold me
in your arms, as you tell me to breathe,
breathe softly, so my breaths are not
mixed with the cacophony of the world’s bullets, howls, screams,
laughs, sneers, coughs, screeches.
let me let you carry me,
head heavy from the constant aches,
throbbing pain that sometimes kills,
if not diffusing the fire within.
The same one that burns to scream,
from top of buildings,
to love, to hate, even to kill.
let me help you, through the multitude
of everything, as you trip over your feet,
bodies tangled, covered in blood.
let me help you, to fuse the fire within you.
I sigh as I watch you,
my gaze locked elsewhere, but
my focus on you. Don’t ask me
how I do it because it’s a talent
known only to the eyes of those
with lust, longing for something
that they can never call theirs.
You aren’t my typical type, I think
I do have one, and you don’t
make my heart skip a beat,
or make it beat twice as fast,
racing against emotions, time,
or limitations that came with the
definition of our friendship.
I don’t want you for that.
I know, I want you
because you are someone
totally out of my reach,
So close, yet so far away
There are photos stuck on the
colored walls that are now peeling off.
There are signatures in slam books
that’re now faded to the point of
there being only pen marks.
There’s a bit of myself in the
songs they now call retro.
I don’t feel as if that me exists anymore.
There’s clothes that’s seven sizes
too small for me.
There’s shoes that may only fit my toes.
There’s chocolates that they
don’t make anymore.
There’s memories that I’m still stuck in,
and they’re precious and pretty.
A bit of that I somewhat exists.
Moving forward, I’m thinking
about the past.
The photographs, songs, slam books,
are all I have now.
And these too would be memories someday.
All of that I exists, right now, right here.
There’s a bird flying overhead
stark black against the setting sun.
It’s graceful, against the
sound of the waves
lapping up on the rocks.
It seems perfect, sitting next to you,
head laid on your shoulders,
my leg resting on yours.
The bird’s gone, now.
The sun’s almost set,
the waves hit the rocks harder.
There’s a boat in the distance,
and there are flashlights everywhere.
It really seems perfect, while
I’m sitting next to you.
NaPoWriMo 2017. 1/04/2017
It’s not about how your hair bounces as
beads of sweat trickle down
your forehead while you dance,
or the way your rhythmic footwork seems like you’ve been tap dancing
on my heart the entire time,
crushing it with your heel,
then gently tip toeing, testing the waters,
suddenly bending down to rip it apart.
It’s not about how you’re always around
casually conversing as you sip coffee,
or the perfect smile that shows up,
lighting up your face, making
your eyes sparkle with delight.
It’s not about how your presence is
felt, in those you love, in their
chatter and mannerisms,
even in your absence.
It’s not about the happiness
felt at seeing you,
or hearing your voice
after a long, hard day;
and the slightly faster beating
of my heart at seeing
that sparkly, perfect smile.
Those feelings are just stuffed
to the bottom drawer of my heart,
desperately wanting to be ignored,
It’s about longing to be with you,
and knowing that’s its not
happening anytime soon.
It’s about promises to
clean out the bottom drawer,
a bit by bit,
just not now.
I read a little something today,
the writing stretched to about
three pages, and I wished I could
pen something down, just enough to
fill the gaping pages of the notebook
I made by stacking pages together,
they somehow fit, not one page meant to
be there, but just being perfect together,
in that exact mismatched order.
I thought about the little something
that I’d read today,
and it let me to my own
jumbled thoughts, and unwritten
philosophies, a bit of humour.
It led me down the rabbit hole in my head,
and at the end of it there
was a huge mess;
unfinished pieces written
on papers strewn about
a littered floor, with an
‘Enter at your Own Risk’ board
hanging at the door,
and a ‘Step With Caution’ placard
placed in the middle of the cluttered space.
A little later, I wondered why
I couldn’t finish what I’d started,
or maybe why couldn’t I be proud of my own work.
And that gave way to the realization
that I hadn’t let it affect my soul,
or let it be shaken to the core. No,
it was superfluous, like my thoughts,
entering and exiting,
leaving a trace
like footprints on the beach,
marking only till the next wave washed it down,
leaving not a hint of it being there just moments ago,
deep imprints laid forgotten.
Coarse black hair, and a
lopsided smile, or maybe a smirk,
Your eyes like a globe, I could see
myself in them, reflected, displayed.
I want to travel the world,
and seeing it in your eyes is not enough.
But now that I miss it all,
I want to come back.
Tell me when to come home,
and I’ll wait. I’ll wait at the door
and I’ll camp on the stairs, never
too far from hearing your call.
Because home is where you are,
and the way you engulf me,
like the flames of a candle to the wicker,
you are wanted, not to protect me,
but to stay and keep me company, keep me warm.
Don’t get extinguished, you are my only
source of comfort, my only place to call
home even if I sit
atop the mountain of wax, it will bring me
down one day.
Be that red sweater that fits me snugly,
and it isn’t always cold here, so I don’t wear it often,
But be there on the last shelf, never out if reach.
Because home is where you are.