i wonder if it is true that we only fall short of our dreams after rounds of hide and seek because we lack context, where amidst the mad scramble we took the wrong turn and found ourselves in a stale room with worn furniture and dusty breaths (when it should’ve been white tiles and wooden figures).
afterall, what’s meant to be yours will be yours: even when everything seems within reach. young veins pumping with beaten sprite, raw against outstretched arms and tipping off the dents between your wrists and clenched fists.
the thing is, it is true that there are some things that can’t be changed, regardless of early mornings spent amidst incense and hope, crumbling at the slightest contact into specks of strained words and reticent prayers.
our shadows still overlap at the edge of our toes, arms intertwined in uncanny angles as we ride pillion to wild instinct aching through our bones in slow, controlled choreographies.
tonight, you look beautiful
in my regrets.