Slide out the window.

Grab your things. We're going out. I miss you, a girl can only say it so many times before she sneaks out of her house to say it in person. I miss you, come see me. I miss you, you numb ignorant waste, come see me. I miss your shoulders and your shadows and the way you say good morning. Let's go get something to eat. Can we walk to McDo? Perfect. Do you remember your New Year's resolution? Do you remember what you told me last year; it was four-thirty in the morning and I was half-asleep on a boat on the way to an island whose name escapes me and you said good morning and that you loved me and that you couldn't sleep. I said that was okay because I needed you to keep me awake. 

The way you used to look at me, the way you were never afraid to speak your mind, and the way that it unnerved me. I miss your annoying glasses and the formulas you never ran out of and how when you talked, it was always about some girl or science. Girls were a science, in a sense. I miss you. 

I miss you. I want to leave post-its on your fridge. I want to fall asleep watching TV on your carpet. I want to meet your dog. Can we pretend it's seven months ago and we are who we once were and things are interesting and alright, and we can still dream. 

Stolen

Night sky, deep purple-blue, the city lights too far to blot out the stars. The moon was slight, just enough. The wind blew better on the balcony, over-looking the houses and the trees and that car parked out front with the washed out paint near the tires. There was a lot of noise from the inside: a mix of human ramble-shouting and the faint beat pounding in the background.

"I like you." Did that really just slip out? It didn't sound right. It sounded a lot better in her head, and it elicited a much much better reaction. Definitely more than him just standing there, his back to the balcony railing, wide-eyes on her, urgent then. "Should I have said it sooner?" He just stood there staring at her. "Should I never have said anything?"

How close to reality am I making this? How much fiction do I get? 

She kissed him, and he kissed back, and it was glorious. What did it matter, the next six days or the next six months. He tasted like Sprite and Crinkles and the nervousness in his breathing kept her heart rate quick. 

The wind blew through the night and the trees and the clouds and the forest floor, all conspiring to make things crack and crumple and snap in the dark. Their coats pulled over them would keep them warm on their way  back to a camp they could barely remember, because his fingers were between her fingers and their ungloved hands clung to each other desperately as heat escaped them and engulfed them. 

Arms wrapped around his waist and shoulders slumped, face pressed lightly to his back as they rode slowly, bareback, to the inn. She swore she could hear him whisper, I always knew. She was tired and she was cold, but when he would occasionally lean back, she would breathe him in, so familiar and so foreign and completely full of promise. She thought he smelled like her future, maybe. What took you so long, she thought he said. 

Bipity, bopity, boo. Pumpkin carriage and powder blue ball gown, long hair in an updo, and heart vicious and ready. He pulled up  in his long white limo just as the fairy dust began to settle, sharp in a crisp midnight blue suit. I found you, he said, his eyes grateful. She shook her head and smiled at him, now snapped into perfection, No, I found you first. One by one, she pulled the pins out of her hair and shook it out, carefully pulling her gloves off finger by finger. She shut her eyes hard enough for the eyeliner-mascara to smudge. You've no idea, my lord, how long I have loved you. 

He stared at her a couple more seconds; in her state, he was worried she didn't know what she was doing. But she knew exactly what she was doing, no matter she was thankful for the excuse. He smiled at her weakly and took her hand and gave it a little squeeze before retreating back into the house, leaving her standing there in the dark and the semi-quiet and the painful sting of suburban housing. 

I get no fiction because life is a bitch. 

mistletoe

i should have
but i didn't
you were the light blue
and i was the blood red
and you could have
but you didn't 
we were braver than that

i think our shirts would look 
pretty together
spinning in a dryer with us
waiting on the couch
or hanging off a yacht rail
with the smell of the sea
and us dusty in the sunlight
waiting for the light to come down

instead they're clinging to our shoulders
and hugging our ribcages
and not ruining their color
and missing their chance to destroy 
each other somehow

promise

i still like you in droplets

and light light grazes

and your fingers in my hair

and the sound of equations

and poetry on graphing paper

and the sound of pen gliding across planes

to make art out of us.

i still like you in silence

and in wild raging entropy

and happy accidents 

and forcing fate when no one's looking

and pretending we don't know

when we know too much.

i still like the thought of you

and how you twist into paradox

and how i have no idea how you became

and how i don't mind.

a little white candle

it's written all over your skin;
you have me
webs between your fingers
the echoes when you smile
mathematical calculations of
the density of your blood 
enchanting 
why can't i have this
but you have This
                       
                                take it.

white waters

you are too many things;
you are stellar and then manic, necessary and then disposable, present and then wandering, and (now) so very clueless. you seemed to know what you were doing at first. you knew so much and i wanted to learn (and i wanted you) and things were easy and fluid and you were a river and i was a paper boat and you took me places and i rode you to banks and oceans and we got by. but now, oh how time has slowed us down, or sped me up, or pushed you away. and i am so very bored, and you don't have a clue. i wish you did, (how i wish you do).

i am a blackhole;
i always need more, and i've needed more for awhile now, but i'm trying not to kill everything i touch. i don't want to destroy or devour or damn. and you are a lot of things and i thought a lot of things, that would be enough. but i have ruined you, you've become lackluster and i've grown bored (so bored, so very bored). and you are not boring, but i've killed it. i'm sorry.

i wish you knew;
that i'm done, that things could be different, but they aren't and i'm done. and i'm sorry.

oh

his forehead crumples, mountain ranges, joy division;

her eyes are crystal, mental lapses, television;

summertime, sleeping in, his voice in whispers

hope implied, the night is young, take heart and hold her 

(still drafting)

He tucked whatever was left in his left breast pocket, shook his umbrella, opened it, and walked away.

It felt like summer, except inside you, you know? It felt like galaxies that were spinning forever suddenly stop, and then rushing through you. And then ravaging you, but in a good way, so then when they’d resume spinning, you’d be left bare. Then in your veins, where blood used to be, there would be memories and the faint scent of happiness. That’s what it felt like. 

Specialties.

You need to stop giving your love away
in semi-sober strips of evening
you have no idea how much I ache
and I guess you are what you became

But I'm losing in every buttery slip
of your tongue in someone you don't know
and the poison slowly creeps
into those rigid roaring veins

There's a tremble in your name now
to match the reckless on your skin
and I don't know if you notice how
I miss you all the same. 

idek

In the distance, off where the shallows met the breakwater, a figure stood, solitary and outlined. Its shape a shadow, the sun blazing bright in echoes of radiance behind it. Its face unidentifiable, just the way it was supposed to be. After all, it was much better if no one saw, no one heard, no one figured.

She squinted, trying to make out what it was, if it was who she thought it could be. It was a giant cheeseburger, lettuce and cheese spilling over the sides. It started running towards her and she just stood there, frozen where she was.

Then, it took her in its big fluffy buns, “I want to have your babies. Let’s run away together!” Unable to move, she let him take her away. It carried her into the ocean, and that was the end of that cheeseburger.

so i found this in my other blog and i really cannot even. 

As he echoes.

Studying made enjoyable and the feeling that he could cover me if he wanted to. 

I could disappear under his skin if he asked. 

I’d build my self a little home beside his lungs and with every breath, I’d feel him. 

Right under his 

heart — that would be my 

metronome. 

His insides would 

be my New York, 

and his pulse
the passing train that shakes my crummy apartment. 

His brain, my Wall Street. 

And every capillary and nerve 

ending, each ligament and tendon, 
from muscle to 

muscle, an avenue to tiptoe across. 

His eyelashes 

my skyline, and his eyes 

my Liberty. 

Remember, I found you first. 

A Eulogy

Guilty

intolerant,

self-important, 
demanding --

and numb,

a clueless that was irritating,

tiring.

Pride and Vanity

inked into skin, sunken

into the bags under coffee-shop eyes

Entitlement

carved into collarbones

and the soft-sharp line of

his jaw

Arrogance, and the
cuts on his cheekbones
and the swelling on his right eye
and the scrapes on his knees;
the shoeprint on his face
and all the blood
he deserved to
lose

Let's not forget the Pretension;

and how could we

when we're all so guilty

of a judgement only society

could dictate. 

We blurred his lines, 

and built his walls,

while he sat there and took it.

He was our mistake

and no one's sorry. 

This is the part where his family cries and we set fire to the casket. 

Ending Ettiquette

It was mid-afternoon and they were going out for a swim, and they would have too, if she didn't die. The way I heard it, she stopped walking and fell right there, in the middle of the trail. That's what everyone's saying -- right down on the earth. And he, he had no idea what to do. At first he thought she was kidding, yeah, like people just liked to lie down and faint for fun. And then when it had been maybe a full five minutes, he ran back and screamed for help.

A lot of people think he wanted her to die, that's why he waited.

But I don't think so because the next winter, he walked right into the middle of this frozen lake, the lake they were supposed to go swim in I think, and slipped through the ice. When they found him, his eyes were still open like he was surprised or shot or something, and his skin was pale and raisiny. Such a shame his heart didn't just stop he was so pretty too.

Her family blamed the government for her death. I don't understand it but no one really does; I think they blame the government for everything, it's just what they do. Maybe they mean the hospital for not being able to bring her back. I think it was something about her blood, I don't really know.

And him, they said he killed himself because he'd gone crazy, but I don't think he was. Maybe he just got sick of pretending to be sane like the rest of us. Maybe he was completely honest with himself, finally, and so he did the only thing he thought he deserved. But that's just my theory, because underneath all of us, we're all pretty useless and we try to be useful and that's cool and everything but if you want to just be, well that's cool too.

He didn't get a funeral though because his family didn't want people to see him like that. But she had a really big funeral, a little like a party except everyone wore black and there were a lot of old ladies and their older husbands going about eating everything and taking up all the chairs. And he went to that, and I heard one of his friends say he nearly threw himself off a bridge afterwards because one of the old ladies asked him why he didn't marry her.

Watch 'im walk.

I'd look at him where I sat and wished, deep inside me at the very back of my head, that he'd look back at me that same way. I wanted him to wish for me too. It was shallow, and self-seeking, and wrong, I know. And to be disappointed over something as trivial as that -- it's shameful, really. But it was in the way he never gave me anything substantial, how I could never get it, and how I wished I truly could.

Maybe it was his virtue I wanted and how sure he was of who he was. It was how when he moved, he seemed endless, and flowing and present but elsewhere at the same time.

It was vanity, a constant feeding of needless vanity that caused me this and now I know I can never expect an ounce of feeling from anyone. I could try my very hardest, but I think a lack of effort is probably the best thing there is right now.

This isn't about needing someone more than they need me. We needn't each other. This is about pride and expectations and false protocol that needs to be dealt with; and now, I think it has. It's been made clear. We owe each other nothing but what is demanded of everyone: common courtesy. And that's tragic.

And now I look at him from where I sit, and I can physically feel little bits of my heart chipping off. Because I know that what he's saying is not for me, never for me. And his skin might brush mine, and his eyes might find mine for some reason, but it will never be for the reason I wish it to be.

This is so stupid. I'm writing it and I know it's stupid.

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. :-??

But in time, we all forgot and we all grew.

The mental image of him in the distance, papers in hand, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. The fraction of a smile aimed in my direction and the feeling that I hadn't been reduced to shivers. Him sitting, then standing, then walking away with just a two-fingered salute to service a goodbye. That film on replay as I stood by the crack of the door, peering in as they kept each other warm by a fire only they could feel.

The mental image of her, trudging through the hallways, dragging her feet, soaked from the downpour and smiling all the while at all the no one's paying attention. The offer of a friendship shot in my direction and a nagging feeling that she would leave me bare. Her mumbling, then laughing, then talking our time away in a waste of well-allotted time. That film on replay as I missed her breathing, dreaming in a room as vacant and as solitary as I always wished I'd never be.

Us on an index card? We're a bit unstructured and vague, and lined and charted and drawn, but not really. We're distant, but only to an extent; and vulnerable, but only enough to be friends. We're there, but only by a finger.

Us on an index card? We're folded and our creases are rather worn, and the edges are a bit frayed. We've been in each other's pockets too many times. We're the back-up back-pocket dynamic that gets pulled out when there's not enough entertainment to pass the time, and no other shoulders to soak up the restless.

Title: Folkin' Around - P!ATD

maybe married to the idea of not.

There's something about something slight, isn't there? Something about someone quite and quiet, and gentle, and despite. And he was. He never said anything, so much so that it compelled you to be good -- how could you be anything else to someone so permitting. 

It's the little things, really. It's what he wears on his wrists and how he tilts his head, and the way he semi-smiles and awkwardly laughs with you -- all the uncertain agreement that comes with the company. It's in the way he wears his shirts and the unknowing; there's an unintentional charm shadowed in that. All the cringes and crumples his mouth made. 

You kind of just want to build him a cave, a safe little corner in the midst of the noise of everything else. Push the world away; come sleep in my arms, I will gladly have you. Play host to a guest that will ask for nothing more than bits and pieces of you. And out of sheer consideration, you will give all you have. 

+++

These people are real, right? It's not just me conjuring up some imaginary population of people? Come closer, let me see. That's okay, we'll fix you up in a bit. Come sit your tired soul and sleep awhile. 

Both in silence, wide-eyed.

It felt like a vast ever-stretching expanse; and even though they knew the water eventually ended a few kilometres down, they made sure they never saw it. Cloaked in the shadow of the day, the setting sun and impending rain, he pulled his coat tighter around him as he sat next-to-and-across from her.

His lips curved up slightly, not quite a smile yet distinguishable as something. He tilted his head to the side and took a long look at her, her features, and then her. He stole glances at the water in between his staring. He was afraid the sun would go down too soon, that rain would come down too early. Maybe, what with his luck, the path underneath them would disappear and they'd find themselves falling into the frigid post-waste, pre-nature mix.

She had her legs folded underneath her, her skin hidden under all her clothes, save for a chance at her neck and clavicles every time the wind blew her hair back. Sometimes, she'd pull the scarf tighter, but she got tired and just rested her head on the arm placed against the backrest-railing. "Tommy," she looked at him. He had wide, smiley eyes, framed by thick lashes. Adolescence had carved his face out well, and he wore it like a fawn -- always a deer caught in the headlights, a deer caught in the sunlight.

He stretched his expression out into a smile, "Kathy." Lit. It looked like he was a lamp and he had been lit.

The last few drops of sunlight danced along her stocking-clad legs, then to her fingers, then on her hair. The wind slurred past them before she spoke, "Ruth's probably waiting for us in the car." She pushed a smile forward, as if begrudgingly.

He looked down first, the click of the key in the ignition and the roar of the engine coming to life, distant. Then he looked at her, and in that moment froze her. He froze her against the background of a setting sun, an oncoming thunderstorm, lying back against the bridge that kept them from sinking. He took her, her hair blowing in the wind, her fingers delicate on her lap and on her face; her eyes fixed on the horizon, and her mind on him.

She stood up and started walking, her ballet flats barely making a sound against the stone pavement. He lagged a little behind. Often he wished he had the guts to steal her. Often she wished they both did. Their lives had spun into a weave too intricate to unravel, and too tiring to put aside. 

*unfinished* 

Disclaimer: This is based on that one scene in Never Let Me Go. I just rewatched it for the nth time and I can't get it out of my head. Js.

and then we stopped fighting.

In the middle of the day, you will wake up to the sound of an empty house and an empty heart and all the thoughts that once haunted you won't be there. They will haunt someone else. You'll look around and wonder what happened to all the living and passion you had caged somewhere deep inside you. Your soul on fire. Your soul in flames. What happened to all the want, desire for more? You will realize, not at first, that you have been consumed.

You'll lie back down on your comfortable bed, stare up at the water-stained ceiling, and be okay. You'll pull your worn blankets up to your chest, curl up underneath it, and look for their hand under the covers. You'll hold it, and feel nothing. Safe, and sleepy. 

"I'm so in love with you's" turn into "I love you's" and eventually dissipate into nothing, a quiet understanding that the space between each other's lips are still saying it, a thin hope that things are as they once were; that the things left unsaid still linger in places no longer touched. Silence will speak for you.

This is what you've become: a faint hope for before, a need for routine, normalcy. Life is no longer ruthless, or raw. You've become ordinary.

we all fall down.

So will you scatter yourself all over the world, in all the places you've ever wanted to be? In all the places you loved? In the air you breathed and the lives you've lived. Will you let the world reuse you as a spec in the never ending, ever-stretching grind of life. As dust, in view of something else.

With all the others who have agreed to be the same -- to all the romantics who thought that they could still be a part of something meaningful even when they couldn't. One of the dreamers living in a dream, living and not living. Who refuse to be boxed, buried, caged. 

Be stepped on by a thousand different people in a thousand different places over thousands and thousands of years. And feel nothing. Be a part of someone's life, and never meet know understand. Watching and not watching, blind and blinkless existence of something that isn't and is. To be part of a memory, and then a chocolate box of memories, and then a scrapbook, and then a tree. Remembered and not remembered. But growing. 

Let the wind blow through you, finally.