contemplation and wrinkles.

by ty

I sometimes wonder why :

 .

I crave for your presence when it’s stifling,

and why being within a

bijou radius

around you is akin to

asphyxiating in a confined       space-

a little tent zipped up and shut tightly in the midst

of a thunderstorm out in the wilderness;

.

unfamiliarity and confuse hidden within sincerity,

in the simplicity of the concept of home and safety –

and the cohabitation of these seemingly polar aspects

within the spaces between your fingers which would suffice

alone,

to reassemble this cacophony of flesh and bones in all the

wrong angles and opposite positions

.

– the same thing disappointments do best.

.

Yet the chaos in wordless gestures adds a tint of pastel

into the stained cloth, leaving a faint trickle against its grayed body

left to lose its vibrancy over repeated episodes of wringing –

wrung dry by the looping melodies resounding in the crevices of

my head in fervent attempts to form befitting

syllables, words and for the ambitious,

sentences to fill the gaps between our slightly shivering frames.

.

But it all goes without saying that my efforts have gone to waste,

for perhaps I’ve understood that impuissance brings complications

.

and everything I’ve done around you feels like a mistake.

.

perhaps its because I’ve learnt to be careful, to invest in self-reliance;

perhaps its because I once said that friendships weren’t meant to be

moored to our first impressions but we’ve come thus far –

and its sufficient :

.

for I’d rather continue making wishes and leaving burnt marks

on my wrists by lit joss sticks,

than have your arms go sore from holding onto

these ponderous imaginations of stability.


AN: for the same old.

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