Your eyes are what spoke to me the loudest, as it did when I first caught your stare. And I still fall for your wink and your lids' sweet fluttering, even right now, at 5:22, looking at your photograph.

I crave for the sound of your voice - gentle and affirming. I remember how each time we talk on the phone your words would slide its way down my throat right through my heart, melting it smooth. I still fall for your laugh, even right now, at 5:22, looking at your photograph.

I ache for every word you've spoken, smitten with tender affection, to again escape your lips. I think I've never told you before how your good-nights are more comforting than the softness of my bed. I still fall for your puns, even right now, at 5:22, looking at your photograph.

I sit here two thousand miles from you, sharing the same sunset view. I whisper to the winds to carry these words to you, and bask the air that you breathe with my kisses too. Then maybe it wouldn't be that far of a gap, even right now, at 5:22, falling in love with your photograph.

You have sunk deeply in my heart and more deeply still each day like sinking in a bottomless quicksand.

And I think I'll fall endlessly to your love like an airplane descending but never lands.

it'd cut through my sour, orange moments, as my blue sheets remind me of you. My pastel mug wouldn't remind me of tea, but your confectionary lips in lieu.

Contrarily, I'd destroy my like for maroon and I'd never have my eyes red. I'd hate every crimson flower, and disdain every green. And I'll stay away from cherries and tangerine.

But loving you is not a condition, but an overwhelming actuality. Loving you is blue. Like the subtle and unchanging hue of the skies, the tint of the ocean and its tides, I will forever love you.

I like whites - clean and crisp. White shirts and white sheets. White mugs and warm milk and white winter rains. But if you were coffee, I'd spill you over every white and love every stain.

I like organized - neat and nice. Made bed and matching blankets. Tidy shelves and closet. But if in my room you're the clutter, I don't think I'd ever fix it.

I like stories and poems, novels that get me hooked. I like plots with twisted endings, and my heart being took. But if you were a word in a chapter, I'd rather read you forever - over and over - than finish the book.

A day with you is saying good morning to the sun with cups of coffee. Long walks, but longer talks, and feeling tingly. Pillow fights on white sheets in underwear with yellow smileys; bacon and eggs and pancakes and sausage, and peanuts with no grease.

A day with you is seeing the dusk with rainbows. Chocolate ice creams and cones and mangoes; KitKats and Cadburys and Oreos, with Lego House and marshmallows. Or maybe cookies and cola and not milk, while I hold your hand of silk. Or maybe some singing or dancing or playing the guitar. Or painting a portrait of the moon and stars.

A day with you is a night in July and rainy. And kissing you with some hugging too and three spoonfuls of honey. Then I'll cradle you, with lights out, as you doze sweetly beside me. I'll hum you to sleep with tender pattings on the hips, and watch your eyelids fall gently.

It never left my mind, how I have always wanted to write a poem about the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the day.

I seem to have always waited. For the right moment. For the feeling. For the very thing that would hold my heart captive. And that, I told myself, I will forever wish.

Quarter past twleve one rainy midnight, I smiled to myself. I have always wanted the poem to be wordy. But I have never thought brevity could be this lovely:

     *You.
     It has always been you.
     And it will always be.

They say I write for love for I am in love, and they love the works I wrote.

But I can't help but be a little peeved, though still I smile with the gratefulness it connotes.

I wonder when will they hear the reprimands my heart whispers. That I do not write for love because I am in love, but I write of love because of you.

You are the grass of Spring, and loving you is like Fall. My heart is the leaves in golden blush, the hue of sunkissed skin in Summer; wrinkling, as if shy of the breeze, and softly toppling from boughs, avid to kiss the ground; and upon falling - shivering, as if caressed by the white dust of Winter.

Remember when your mom was all wrinkled brow and frowns as she kisses your scraped knee? And she tells you to be careful, don't get your skin scarred again. That's what we grow up to knowing: don't get ourselves hurt.

But then we fall in love. We give our hearts to somebody just to have it broken. Whether we count that as a privilege or not doesn't matter. 'Cause in the first place, we thought they would never crush it. But for some reason, he chooses another. For some reason, she gets tired. For some reason, people leave. But for some reason, we choose to stay. 'Cause in the first place, we never thought tears would come into play. Then we promise ourselves to never love once more. But like masochists craving for self-inflicted pain, we allow our hearts to again be taken away.

I want to hold your hand and feel its creases, the same that wrap around your pen. I want the immensity of your palm mantled on mine, its warmth that bruises my knuckles. I want to feel your fingers, and kiss the cold away its tips.

And if in every entanglement my touch could whisper, it would reassure,* "I love you. I'll forever hold your hand. I'll forever adore the solace I find in the tightness of your grip. I love you - and I am not letting go. So please don't."

We hate good-byes, yet we say it too often. After a phone call. After a visit. When classes end. When we leave a restaurant. Perhaps these tiny good-byes are said too much to prepare us for the greater good-byes of the future.

But isn't it just strange how the things we hate are often what our mouths are full of? And with the same mouth we whisper the sincerest 'I love you's'.

We love. And the ones we love leave or the love we have leaves us as time passes by. Perhaps it is not good-byes we hate. Perhaps good-byes, themselves, aren't painful at all. 'Cause maybe it is the loving that we hate but we never truly admit it. 'Cause maybe all along we knew, with loving comes good-byes, and that idea is what's painful.

Last night, before I close my eyes, my heart whispered me something. It told me to love you endlessly.

My lids finally shut as I lull myself to the thought,
           *"I will. And I always will."

Guilt slits slowly my throat. As I gurgle anxiety, it watches.

"Just **** me!" I imploringly screech.

"I can't," it retorts coldly.

"What do you mean you can't?! End this agony! Stab my throat! Pierce my heart. Let me bleed and let me die!"

Guilt stared then, calmly, with a sigh,
"You're the one holding the knife."

We could easily find ourselves falling in love for things unfamiliar. We think it's beautiful, our hearts taken away. But like travelers journeying to a new city, after some time, we get used to what it's like - not as pretty as we first arrived.

And it is in the nature of man to crave something beautiful and extraordinary, yet we still come back to where we have all began. To our home. Very familiar. Even uninteresting. But the solace it gives, no other place could cater. We come home bleary after toil - partly because of the stories we are to tell, and partly because we know it will always promptly accept us. It's the only place that whispers to our hearts, ever so gingerly inviting us to return. Patiently, patiently it waits for us to come back. To come home. Back to its arms, back to its warmth. Moreover, you long for it just as how you long for a lover's embrace - its security and reassurance.

*I may not be your only love through out future's time, but I wish I am your home.

I tried to stop it once, but I failed.
I tried to dry them once, but I failed.
Because of you, I greatly failed.
And no worse a failure can be than I.

I have failed to stop my pen from
       continually bleeding your name.
*And I failed to dry these pages,
       soaked in thoughts of you.

I think I'll forever long for your kiss like how the desert longs for rain.
And crave for your touch like how a wound demands pain.

I'll forever ache for your "I miss you", with the tumid wish for things to stay the same;
     like how, from then, each and every "I
            love you" would ache for your name.

I have always loved rains. The drizzle. The storm. The chilly air

Tonight it's a drizzle. I smile at the forlorn skies. And I'm reminded of the cold nights and your warm hugs and your kiss that burnt my cheek. And how the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof has always lulled me to sleep. How I wake up to your good morning the next day, and how your I miss you was my cup of coffee.

But today was different. This morning it's a storm. It rained so much I woke up to a soaked pillow. It rained so much I can't look at the skies to smile. So it grinned to me with the cold air, that you are mine no more and you weren't mine at all. And then I realized, maybe I don't like rains afterall.

Once there was a maiden who has a gardener as her wooer. And the maiden love him too.

The maiden is affluent in money called Memories. And the gardener has flower bounties called Feelings he gives daily to the maiden. Every morning the gardener would knock on the maiden's door and hand her the most beautiful picks of Feelings his garden has. Some days it's a posy of 'I love you's'; or a nosegay of 'I miss you's'. Other days it's a wreath of 'kisses' and 'hugs'. But he knew what she likes best - it's the bouquet of the four. And every time, the maiden would insist to pay him with a Memory, but sweetly he would shake his head no.

Until one morning, she heard no knock on the door nor there were flowers on her porch. She waited and waited, but nothing came and he never arrived.

Days became weeks, there were no signs of the gardener still. The Feelings he gave her started to wilt, but many remain abloom.

"I wish the next time he knocks, he would hand me a bouquet of 'I love you's' with a coupling of 'I miss you's'," *she whispered between sighs. "It's not my favorite arrangement, but those I favor among all."

And the skies seem to hear her wish. There were three gentle knocks on the door. She smiled and stood in front of it, wishing that it's really him. And it was.

But he had no bouquets in hand. No posies nor nosegays nor wreaths.

"There is a new damsel in town, and to her I chose to give the Feelings, but she don't seem to care," he explained. "My Feelings piled up on her lawn but she never opened the door."

He paused.

Then earnestly, "My garden is bare of flowers, and I ran out of Feelings to give you," he continued. "But if you would allow, could you hand me a little Memory so I can restore my garden and offer you bouquets of Feelings again?"

*Then she gave him every Memory she has.

Once, it rained. I didn't understand why my mom hates it so much. As for me, I like the wet feet and drenched clothes, the raindrops kissing my head. Until one night, it rained so hard; the night was colder than any other. Then I started to understand why my mom dislikes it so. It didn't listen when I begged for it to stop...

for my pillow is soaked.

She was courtly,
Oh! Stately was she!

But woe to her! --
      the seller of love;
            seeker of empathy.

What more poorer than her a soul
         could be? --
                  A morsel of love for a penny.

What more colder
         than a night as hers--
                 To slumber in as if a hearse?

Oh, woe to her! --
      the seller of love;
           seeker of empathy.

And what more worse
       could a mishap be--
                Than feast in the banquet
                        of the ****** and the guilty?

How more cursed
        could a creature be--
                 Than thrive in another's lustful  
                          idolatry?

Oh, woe to her! --
      the seller of love;
            seeker of empathy.

She vends fondness
       she never can receive,
             forth with the saintdom
                      she ne'er can retrieve.

What other vying
         is greater than hers--
            To state the malison
                 of the welkin terse?

And she prays to the dimmest sky;
       to the starless horizon she cries,
           "Woe! -- woe is me! --
                     the seller of love;
                           seeker of empathy."

Eternal funeral for this beauty
       latently in a coffin sleeps,

With never a burial - she can't
             die even six-feet deep.

My heart fell and sank deeply at the sight of you,
     like an anchor hurled into the sea.

And then you spoke and I'm reminded of the waves;

You're the sea and I'm a fish,
     the salty waters I long and crave.

.  *I fell in love with a star, there suspended in the heavens. I fell in love with its light, its brights, its might. I gaze and catch glimpse of the galaxies. In its twinkle my heart sinks.

   I fell in love with a star; here I stare from afar. Can't barely touch it, can't barely feel it, can't barely cradle it. But as sure as the sun would rise at daybreak, I can see it. And each time -- oh, every single time! -- I am mesmerized.

   I fell in love with a star, who from above watches the earth. I know somehow it sees me, somehow it hears me, somehow it knows I exist. Somehow it guides me; to somewhere it leads me, and I cannot resist - to the sublime burning of its glory, I stand dazed.

   And I wish that would suffice my longing for it to once wrap me in its light and quench my craving for an embrace, even if it means burning myself upon seizing a fireball in the horizon, so be it. I wish it would, but it wouldn't.

   I fell in love with a star which I sometimes dread for its beauty that I cannot grasp. I want to feel it between my fingers and lingering on my lips. I'd invite it in my heart and open my chest. But all I can do is gape from afar -- the chastisement for loving a star.

I wouldn't cringe
   if it's not you,
But it is.

It wouldn't sting
   if I feel no love,
But I do.

It won't last if it's not true,
But my heart brims with rue.

And it wouldn't hurt as much
   if you didn't say you loved me too.

It's hard to close your eyes and sleep
When I'm in trench-deep thoughts of you.

It's hard to dream,
   like, 'miss me too'
When you know it cannot come true.

My ever fairest dear, Lucille
Where shall I find you, dear?
Where have you gone,
   my love?

To the vast seas, I have inquired
Yet have not I heard you--
The waves voice not
   your name.

To lullabies I have listened
Yet not one word describes
   just how lovely
     you are.

Many a dish I have tasted
Yet none compares to the
  taste of your sweet,
      sweet lips.

The temporal joy of the fair--
Far greater still the joy
  I feel when you
     are near.

The scent of popcorn I feast on--
More fragrant still the smell
   of your velvet
      red hair.

My dear Lucille, where have you gone?
Come home to me dear love,
   before my pulse
      is none.

And when it has stopped - my breathing
I will remember you
   To my faint heart's
      beating.

She walks on velvet, swaying hips
Flashes a grin, the poise she keeps
And for her query:
     What makes you happy?
She waves her hand ever gently.

She walks in skin and bones collapsing
Flashes a grin, but near to fainting
With this she answers:
     Loose clothes and shivers
She eats her dinner in reverse.

Blood is her carpet, blades are her sash
She keeps on walking - feline
Fits the crown of purging - rash
'Til she gets to be the beauty queen.

I cannot breathe without your hello
I cannot talk, and I won't let go
I cannot focus, my dear, I love you so.

I cannot think, you cloud my head,
My heart can't pump,
It lies in your hand dead

And I better go to bed

But I can't sleep, darling your face,
When I close my eyes, I am dazed

And I can't cry, because I'm not sure if I should,
Or maybe I'm afraid - I don't know if I could

But I also can't smile
Because I breathe you;
I speak you
I think of you
I cry of you
'Cause you're not even mine,
But in case, my dear, I swear I won't mind.

And it still hurts
when I am reminded
of how I treated you--
like my favorite pillow;
of how I sang
sad melodies at 2am,
and how you listened,
and how I thought
you really did.

The idea of your kiss is ambrosia and honey.

The idea of your embrace is tasting the galaxies.

The idea of your stare is nectar in my tongue.

The idea of your touch is a lullaby yet unsung.

But the reality that all are but an idea is the sinking of a captain-less boat; a thousand needles in my throat.

The way I fell for you
'Twas fascinatingly hard
You let me in a free fall
Without nobody to guard.

The way I fell for you
'Twas fascinatingly sweet,
Not until you tore me--
When the ground and I meet.

He sings love songs
     without the love
     for the song.

He amuses the crowd,
     the critical throng.

What they don't know
     is that after the show,
     he goes home
     with a wrinkled brow.

It's a different kind of sadness--
     something quite close to madness.

A tub of ice cream cannot still
     a putrid heart, a mind that's ill.

My body is a canvass
Tinted are griefs
Of reminiscent past

My body is a wall--
A mural of every break, every fall

My body is a plate
Etched of anguish my mind berates

I am a paint--
Deep, dark burgundy--
The shade of my soul's ignominy

I am a brush--
Strokes of hate in the evening's hush

I am a clay--
Molded in disappointment and dismay

I am a charcoal--
Smudged by idiocy
And ideas that are shoal

My body is a sculpture--
Crafted with unsightliness and disgust

I am an edifice--
A construction of mars,
Founded by scars

I am the thread of my clothes--
I wear to cover my bones--
   I hide in the closet--
I deeply loathe

I am a masterpiece--
Of repugnance and self-grudge;
Of vexation, of lies--
Of hate! Of hate! Of hate!

I am an art--
A sophisticated tragedy,
An intricate catastrophe
Perfection in all grotesquerie

I shouldn't have thought of it
Shouldn't have picked up my phone
Nor have told you I'm alone
But I did.

I shouldn't have said hello
Shouldn't have let you know
Shouldn't have said it
But I did.

I should not have told you
How I long to hear your voice--
     And heard it above the noise
How my being so craves hue.

But I did, yes, I did
Because I miss you
But what you did-- that's what you did--
Didn't say you miss me too

As wreath of daisies wilt and dry
So do my heart shrivel and die
Drunken with rue-- spirit downcast
Tainted by blues painted by past.

I shouldn't have said it again--
Your cold reply a stab to I--
Rot this soul that's already sunken
But I risked-- a languid sigh.

I shouldn't have done it
Shouldn't have bid
My last 'I miss you'
But I did.

Lily Willie, I am hungry
Do you have a cup of coffee--
A glass of milk, a butter cookie
Or a chocolate-dipped strawberry?

Lily Willie, I feel queasy,
But burgers are too greasy,
And pizzas are too cheesy
How about macaroni?

*Lily Willie, are you silly?
It's just a bite, a little candy
A slice of cake, nothing fancy
My head is numb, vision's hazy

I feel cold, but it's not snowy
My lips are purple, fingers chilly
My eyes are empty, so is my tummy
Lily Willie, I feel hungry.

I have sought answers to the query what makes a person perfectly sightly, yet have not I found it.

Is it in the curl of his hair, or the warmth in her stare?
The touch of her skin as she lays bare?

Or is it in the hue of his eyes - deep sea blue? Or the beating of her heart, as if on cue?

Is it in the lines of his jaw, or that perfectly white teeth? The blush on her cheeks or the rise of her chest as she breathes?

I know not if it is in the grace of her gait, nor if it is her weight. Or his broad shoulders or the size of his feet.

Is it in the lobes of his ear? Or her view in rear? Is it in the curves of her waist, or his abdomenals like hills? The complexion of his arms? Or her hug that warms?

Is beauty in the arch of her back or the contour of her *******? Or his suit and tie and his Sunday's best?

Does it have anything to do with the fragrance he wears - warm and woody? Or is it in her pair of sneakers and a hoodie?

Can it be found in the protrusion of her clavicles or the density of his brows? Or in the depth of his voice? The color of her toes?

Is it in the ball that he plays or the gentleness of her face? Ah! How can someone be so angelic in demeanor?

     It isn't clear to me if splendor in countenance can really be found. Should not it rather be felt? Or should it be perceived through sight?

     One is beautiful because people say she is. But beauty could be forfeited at the thought of the beholder that she isn't.

     Does one tell himself that he is as Adonis in loveliness when he looks in the mirror? Or does he say he is like Hephaestus in visage?

     Is beauty defined in the standard: dark hair, appealing stare;
aligned teeth, sharp nose;
tan skin, shaved brows;
waxed legs, hefty breast;
mild touch, sweet caress;
cheeks sans freckles, six feet tall;
flamboyant voice, and foxy lips?
What about molls and vagrant rips?

     To say one is grotesque - is not it just in your perspective? And to say one is gorgeous - what is your basis?

Is it her beautiful locks? --but she is a ****--
Or the emerald windows of his soul? --but he is a criminal--
Does beauty still nest on them?

     I say the efficacy to arouse fascination is not found in the facade of a person, rather found somewhere more profound.

     To put beauty in the way that it is in the eyes of the beholder is quite narcissistic, but let people fancy you not for the sightliness of your face, but the goodness of your soul, though it is heir to sin; the mercy in your eyes, not its color; the care in your touch, not its balminess. Because the only thing that is undying and immortal is not your cast but the heart.

I can taste-- no, feel!--
The grease in my mouth
I've finished my meal
It didn't taste real.

I can feel-- no hear!--
The bellow of my arteries,
My gal bladder, my kidney--
Screaming in agony.

I can hear-- no, see!--
My stomach as it digest
The posion I've ingest'd
I say, it's killing me!

I can see-- no, smell!--
The nauseating smell of bane
It smells like oil, sugar, and salt--
Leaving stains in my vains.

I would've if I could've--
Stick a finger down my throat
If I could've I must've--
But I shouldn't!-- so I don't.

I am defiled not by smoke
Nor am I defiled with coke
But in every swallow-- a choke!
If I must die-- through stroke.

I want to gag,
Purge out every liter
I want to gag!--
Draw out melted butter.

Ew, I just ate fries
Ew, they're stomach lice
Ew, I hate my body--
Ew!-- magnificently.

Puke-- no! I feel disgusting
Puke-- no! I am disgusting
Grease, gah! Oh, please!
My lips want not your kiss.

"Why can't you love yourself?"

*"What's not to hate?"

She wept
And wept
Then slept--
   She just wanted to rest.

She cut
And drank
Then jumped--
   Can't say 'twasn't the best.

I'm a little lonely
Just a little bit sad
A slit on my wrist
      won't be that bad.

Or maybe two--
       'Cause I am brave
Or three--
       Who's there to save?

Now, the fourth--
A bit too deep
Then the fifth--
Eternal sleep

Maybe if I die I would be loved,
Or maybe if I die no one would sob

Maybe if I die I can have my life renewed,
Or maybe I can't, perhaps this is how it should

Why won't I just die that this may end?
I may not be broken, but I'm tired to bend.

Why didn't I just die when I was in my mother's womb;
Rather face reality and to society succumb?

Just let me engage in my demise,
I can't play this game, I have lost the dice.

Surely if I die there'd be no more oceans to dive,
And if and only of I die I would know that I was alive.

I can only trace the contour of your face
From this portrait of you I see
I counted the hundred thousand and one ways
But you just can't be one step closer to me.

I can only imagine the day-old perfume -
    Its scent lingering in my nose -
On your navy blue shirt you left in the room --
Quickly on the couch you slouched then shortly dozed.

I can only envisage you munching chips;
Your eyes as they squint when you smile;
When you sigh - the small partition on your lips --
    Why do you have to be away nineteen miles?

You listen to me with your eyes
And I hear you when you write
When I perpend on my demise --
    "Do not heed, they are all lies."

And at night when I gaze at the skies - starless;
When I see no rainbow after the rain;
I tell you I can't be any fearless
Even the blue skies can't take away the pain.

But you're a firefly inside the darkest cave
An oasis in a wasteland --
And in my solitude you'll say,
"Dude, I am just a text away."

I am not a poet,
But I can rhyme
My thoughts are read,
    not heard
        and I write.

I wish that like a poet,
    I may drown my emotions
        in words like an ocean.

I'll throw my ship's anchor
    to the bottom
        along with my heart.

But I am not a poet,
Rather a mere sad lad
And the only thing I see
    to be finally free
        from self-abasement ensnaring me
            is to drown it, not in words,
                but in an ocean of blood.