While others want their love to be like a river,
Ever-changing, ever-flowing,
I ought mine not to be like so
Since rivers tend to dry up;
My love for you aims to be ever-present
Whatever the season, even the harshest one.
Anent, I offer you love like newly-born stars
From other galaxies
Seen from ours:
Bright but not blinding
And even in death
Always shining.
For Anj
When I ready myself to sleep, I actually prepare to race with thoughts, endless. However, said musings are finite, as I think about the end. Of us. So you see, as I count sheep, I am not aiming for sleep but distracting myself from the things I crave to think – and to feel and to relive and to experience with you. Again. Again. Once more. I try to fight such wanderings of my mind, pondering instead on what to do when I wake up – assuming I will hit slumberland. Assuming, too, that I will still open my eyes, though that’s a pleasing outcome. Sometimes I play scenarios in my head, happy ones or sad, whichever I deem perfect to dance with the weather. Oft, I let my mind loose and play with my stream of consciousness – I enjoy this even as it might lead to tears. It doesn’t matter as they will cleanse my eyes – and thoughts. I think of remnants, anyway. I dwell. I think of you. I cry. I think of us. I remain mum. So silent that lucid dreaming will start its spectacle. My eyelids twitch and I will fall asleep. No dreams but you’re there. You are not a dream now. But always there. In my mind. Out of it. A phenomenon. A noumenon. I sleep but there is no rest.
December trembled in my hands
As its breeze announces its return:
The nights are longer,
So long it scares the sun.
I trace the lines of my palms
Where yore is etched, and I remain there;
I long for many Mays of summer,
Foggy Februaries and Septembers of singsongs.
It was right to let go of seasons, however sordid the longingness;
April ended with a storm, calm but forceful,
And as the flood anchors me, I close my eyes,
Say goodbye to many moons, many moments, many memories.
I wake up and it’s just November
No ghosts and ghouls parading,
Only sorrowful sunshines and bleak moonlights;
I trace the future of my hands and I drown back to where I blossomed.
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Naked Ideation 