Rapture.

When the soul has known darkness like art, silence swells up until it fills the lungs. All you will hear is the euphony of your teardrops and the crashing of your heart. Our folly is love, its fodder is touch. We are starving with mouths filled to the corners of our lips, yet the words will never reach the surface. Speak now, hold me now, I beg, lest we give in to the rapture of the deep.

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Look this way, my wicked.

On evenings when the warm effervescent glow of the moon gilded the ground,
your skin glitters,
your eyes dance with sliver streaks of moonbeams and,
dare I say, fairy dust.
 
I am a shell filled with maybes and what ifs.
My skin screams protests that seek your quiet.
Your presence satiates this black hole of a heart —
each touch is a blanket of carnal promises so sweet,
I want to believe in the magic.
 
You were my everything once,
if everything meant kisses that burned into the soul.
You were the air that filled my lungs,
if air meant the hope of tomorrows and forevers.
 
I still yearn for you, my wicked.
Despite this tempestuous love affair,
I still rise from the wreckage you left in your wake
arms wide open, nose bloody.
 
Dearest fickle muse, heal me.
Touch me.
Move to the skips of my heartbeats.
Sway to the rhythm of my honesty.
 
This is what you came for, isn’t it?
This is the ever-after to your once-upon-a-time.
This.
This is it.
Just look my way.
Look my way once more.

Blue.

Palms stretched out like a beggar asking for alms,

insatiable and demanding.

Never has adoration looked so malignant.

The last day’s breath envelops like a sinister shadow waiting to pounce,

morbid in its bluntness.

There is neither I nor you in the morrow.

My horizon, bleak.

This heart bleeds blue, for you.

For K.

Woman,

wear your scars well.

Let these proud mounds of flesh reflect your healing.

Let them serve as a reminder that the wicked may have wounded you,

but you never faltered.

Let them remind you that you are resilient,

that your body is a temple meant to be worshiped by the pious.

You are your savior.

You are your own brand of divine.

Let your walls crumble.

Nobody is out to get you,

not anymore.

Let love shine through.

Let your kindness seep through the cracks that brought lost boys to their knees.

You are the beauty that tamed the beast.

You deserve forevers and galaxies and so much more.

Tea and biscuits.

My veins bleed blue,

my brain filled with memories of you.

Storms brew in that beautiful mind,

and to me you’ve stopped being kind.

Wretched is this love, peace escapes me.

You run everywhere but here, I am left with nowhere to be.

Time’s been expensive, a luxury you couldn’t afford.

Shadows loom, telling me to cut the parachute chord.

We’ve been found wanting, every damned salvation tried.

No short of nefarious, no protests cried.

Holding on to things we never had,

love ripe for parody, no justice to be had.

Cinnamon tempests in teapots hot with tea,

biscuits dripping honey, yet no love for me.

Patient zero.

Heart in perpetual limbo.
Brain caught in vanilla hurricanes, give it time to descend —
either dance in the rains, or get thrown asunder in the turmoil.
My optimism — it’s there,
crippled by the bitter cold blanket of ephemeral feelings and despair.
The floodgates that are your lips, moaning strings of letters that held so much promise,
fervent orisons that make gut angels sing, saccharine lies.
Amid the wicked dichotomy between realities and dreams, faith and cynicism,
it’s safe to say my soul has been restless for millennia.
The darkness inside hums, vociferous and frequent.
I, patient zero for this sick love story.
You, the epidemic I’ve developed immunity for.

Regrets.

I watched helplessly as the gush of emotions that once drowned us slowly ebb and then stop; the sunset of our moments slowly casting shadows on the ground we’ve set foot on.

I was real. I certainly felt like I was.

But you reduced me to nothing but a dream — one you’d happily come to bed with each night, only to wake up from without much thought in the first light of morning.

I will never take human form in your eyes. I am a balled up mess of dreams and tears and regrets.