i stayed up last night to the accompaniment
of solitude and quietude – the mere
traces of your presence
fading along with the sound of raindrops.
i pondered about the existence
of foolish words –
we, us, love,
and there was nothing more apt
to picture our foolish thoughts
amongst the reveries of pastel pink skies.
nothing besides bittersweet stupidity.
the entire notion of how we could’ve
been taking polaroids of bright hues –
if only we had been blessed with the
simplicity of raw parallel lines carved
against rotting wooden tables.
if only we had been moored to
our first impressions –
cold and unworthy.
but i had to admit,
as the thin sheet of paper slit
fragile flakes of skin –
perhaps i wasn’t sure of how to
treasure and clutch onto things.
or i’d rather choose to believe
that the angles of my fingers
weren’t to your liking,
and the gaps between these helpless
pieces of skin and bone were too small –
too weak, to form a taut yet sturdy
support for your soul,
greedy for flight.
AN: thanks for being the only one who can push me to write istg. going overseas soon.