So dear, no matter how we part, I hold you sweetly in my head
And if I do not miss a part of you, a part of me is dead
If I cannot love you as a lover, I will love you as a friend
And I will lay a bed before you; keep you safe until the end. 

TAKE; DON'T ASK.

i. Someday, my words will be enough to tell you how things truly are. 

Someday, there will be ages and pages and chapters of you stored away on shelves upon shelves in my personal library, a collection of you's and your's and everything to do with what kept me sane and what kept me happy those bewildering 8 years. You will look back on this (i hope) in a decade or so and nod, because I kept it sacred -- this written promise of unintentionally building you a shrine.

ii. Lies, everywhere; lies. 

Everything I've ever managed or done or written about, in colored prose and verse and ribbons of assortments and feeling -- every single one of those artful instances has  been a lie. This is a piece out of Nothing is original, even this is stolen. And you, someday, I shall steal as well. 

iii. Build yourself a castle.

I'm in quite the mood for a prince, myself. 

LAST NIGHT

This is the first creative writing assignment of the year, and it being that, I wanted it to be pretty enough to have people aside from my Lit prof read it. :)) The original was written in third person but when I was fixing it up the night before the deadline, it was just so detached and unappealing, I started over from scratch. 

This is a complete revamp. Be kind.

but mine

miles of him, stretched on for shores
how his waves crashed
endless
and how he glided so gracefully
and ragged
sharp, along the surface
and when he hunched his shoulders
i thought he could carry 
the world
and maybe
just maybe
me;

to answer the siren call
he wasn't sending
i whispered into a seashell
and wished my
madness,
to drown

FUTILITY.

you scattered us in 
places I couldn't reach; 
you left traces 
of what we were everywhere 
you went, and now 
there's not a corner of 
the world I can run away to; 
everywhere is you. 

m.

it's in your giggles
and the way you nudge me
and how warm you feel against
skin and bones and
all the many dimensions of this. 

and when you move;
you seem
endless. 

:P

There was nothing quite wrong with his face, but at the same time, there was nothing particularly spectacular about it. He wasn't one of those people who had that one defining feature that made them look either really really good or really really bad. No, he just was. He looked alright stoic, laughing, angry, sad, silly -- his face was sort of like vanilla, if that makes any sense. It didn't make him look any certain way, but he wasn't exactly obscenely ordinary either. 

Maybe it was his music showing through his skin. Maybe the notes and beats and words from his favorite songs, maybe his hugs and kisses had somehow found their way to his surface, caking up a thick layer of personality on all his normalcy. 

Maybe it was the way he told his stories that made him a cut above the rest -- like he was meant to tell them, with the pride and smirking befitting someone better. Maybe it was the faux pouting, the pseudo-puppydog-eyes, all the kidding around. Maybe it was the decency and propriety, the protocol he kept so defiantly that let him carry himself the way he did. 

Maybe it was all the people he hated and loved, and all the things he wished he could bury. Maybe it was the girl who liked him, maybe it wasn't. Maybe she added a sheen of something special on what he lacked. Maybe her attention made up for whatever he was missing. Maybe in her acceptance, he was made better. 

Maybe it was just him. 

Untitled (ONE).

This is going to be part of a series of little chapters in my attempt to finish a short story. Don't expect anything great out of this. It's a work in progress (obviously). For all intents and purposes, it would be great if you read this with the notion that it was written by a twelve-year-old, just so it'll stand a chance. 

I'm also trying to play with the whole point-of-view thing. I usually write stories in third person, but our lesson in Lit is on P.O.V. and I kind of want to get into it. :-??