all systems are go

You just ain't receiving
Your phone is off the hook
Your doors are all shut


I think my body is ready to get out of here. My mind left ages ago.

someone has a lot to say

you know how there's always one place for certain things? wristwatch on the bedside table. cell phone on the dresser. chapstick in the abyss of your purse. And then one day you think 'maybe i should be more careful with my things' and you decide to put it in a 'safer' place only for it to get lost (because you couldn't have put it anywhere but the bedside table/dresser/sink top) and then it's gone. Lost forever. Hearts are something like that. we're all scrounging about looking for a safer place, bad judgment clouds our vision. our hearts are lost and our souls are empty.

coffee is cold

We drove late that night, later than usual and farther than we normally go. Snow Patrol was oozing the usual sappiness and we were following the car ahead of us, deeper into downtown than we thought. I was having conversations with myself, half-asleep, half-sad. The wet grass woke me up as the eleven of us walked towards the Hill overlooking the city. The view was a mix of emotions, smoke billowing from factories at 3am, orange lights turning night into day, war hero statues dancing in the dark. We had to go elsewhere for the stars. A place where even the moon didn't shine because the forest was so thick. Some of us dared to take a leap into the darkness, others complained about the need to piss real bad. The clouds descended slowly, we were unaware of them encircling us because we were so excited. Lines shot through the stratus ones, lines that indicated that we may be too late. 'At least when I said 'I love you', I slept peacefully. Even if I didn't mean it'. No one responded because no one heard me. We fought the urge to sleep even on the way back, singing along to bad rap and pathetic pop because it was so uncomfortable to doze off. 'Still looking? We're back in the city now, it's useless,' someone said to my gloomy self. I merely sighed in response. I looked till my last stair had been climbed. Nothing. 'Oh well. Maybe it's a good thing I didn't see anything. I wouldn't have known who to wish for to say fake 'I love yous' to anyway'.

all's fair in love and moodiness

winter clogs my window. i can't open it when the sun finally shines after 4 days of utter gloom.

He is irate and callous tonight, dinner was a quiet affair. she doesn't have the energy to dig him out from under him and frankly speaking, her ego would rather do other things. The chicken was too dry when she took it out of the oven. He didn't complain, even though she did. One of them is always complaining. He reassures her of her beauty, her blackest eyes, her brown, brown skin. He is fascinated with her anatomy, night after day, day after night.

But he gets to himself, his skin turns inside out, and it is most uncomfortable to be him and around him. 'I hate it when you don't talk to me,' she said, arms folded, eyes averted. 'My heart beats, my chest rises and falls, my thoughts race, I'm ready to scream at you, but I don't. I never do. I let you be. I'm just a gypsy with wandering eyes, and all I can give you is all of my love.' It was probably nothing, she now thought, this slinking in and out of conversations and reality.

He would slink in and out of her conversations with herself. It was probably nothing, this worrying and fidgeting she did. He stood in little pieces, talking to her picture. Thoughts left his mind as he walked on calm water. In and out of past, present, he couldn't stop touching her. He laughed at her once, when the eyelash she was trying to wish on wouldn't blow away. 'Someday, you'll believe,' she had said. And now they slept with their backs to each other and he believed. He'd whisper in her ear after she was fast asleep, he'd have entire conversations with her. She'd wake up and look over at him, thinking why they couldn't have normalcy when they were both awake.

When they first met, she was with another man. Dancing like she didn't know how to, her skirt in a careless mood. Their eyes had met and she looked adoringly everywhere, so he knew he wasn't the only special one in the room. It was the frivolity that did it for him, he had never met a scattered adult quite like her. The way her hair had to be tamed when she was laughing too hard and how she hummed in broken French with such surety. He'd have difficulty keeping up sometimes, the constant running around as if one was on a perpetual high, but he did it anyway. Too much solemnity in his life had closed him up. They'd switch poles, he'd listen to her cry and watch her sulk in corners, she'd sleep to his guitar sounds and rise to his making breakfast. Interchangeable personalities are always dangerous when they're around each other. And they were around each other all the time. Sometimes danger doesn't need a reason to happen, then.

now here's the sun/moon, it's alright

Come on, hide your lovers
Underneath the covers
Come on, hide your lovers
Underneath the covers

post self-destruction.

She wakes up, still very tired, on a sunny mid-afternoon fall. The bed feels lumpy and smells unfamiliar, the bedsheets are a deep blue. Squinting, she hits her head on the low roof as she gets up suddenly. Someone is breathing next to her, she feels a heartbeat reverberate through the mattress. A face, slightly hidden under the sheets, it is her best friend. 'I slept with my best friend?' her shock is too bewildered to voice itself. She closes her eyes and opens them again, and it is someone else, not her best friend. She is sad and relieved at the same time. 'Did I want to sleep with him? Did I want to wake up next to him? Maybe I was dreaming'. She dreamt of Gene Wilder for sure though, pretending she was Charlie and the chocolate factory was hers. She kept saying the lines in her head for the rest of the day:
'And so shines a good deed in a weary world.'
'Where is fancy bred? In the heart or in the head.'
'We are the music makers...and we are the dreamers of dreams.'

She stomps acorns as she smokes, a child and an adult at the same time.

if it wasn't for your maturity, none of this would've happened. if you weren't so wise beyond your years i would've been able to control myself.

'Run until your lungs are sore
Until you cannot feel it anymore'-

isn't this so sad?

As always
I'll assure you
It's the last time
That I'll leave you
Until next week
If not sooner
I'll at least wait
Till after dinner


answer: yes, it is.

we were sparkling.

There used to be a tree where we took our pretty things. We'd hook them by a thread, golden egg lipstick and feathers, pieces of glass, chandelier baubles, and empty bottles of wine and watch the light shine through.


I'm afraid to forget you.