[the boy who was not real] 

she harks back to how your lips taste on the periphery
of flame-glazed snowflakes and bloody cherry blossoms
her knees quiver at the thought of your little realities
hopelessly arcing into memory’s wrecked conundrum
do you scribe on leaves your sentiments and call on fate
to save you from the trainwreck that you’ve been?
weren’t your fingers just an echo of her paintbrush,
your smiles just smeared charcoal from the beginning?
all the lyrics you swirl on midnight cups of coffee
the places, the maps you draft on the cream of her skin
the words you favour and the favours you turn to words
oh, how every part of you borders now on misleading
the moon is but a victim of her and your weakness
the stars, the dark and everything you pondered upon
but their glory is as deceiving as yours proved to be
despite the fact that you were so despicably real once

and yet she wonders, oh how she wonders now
why you’re gone, why you’re not here anymore
(if you were ever here at all)

i.

i woke up imagining the smell of coffee and pancakes wafting through the bedroom in that achingly familiar way (which was, coincidentally, not familiar at all) because i was alone and the radio wasn’t on and it was far too tidy and messy at the same time —

i woke up banishing your eyes from my thoughts because i couldn’t allow myself to silently retell such tragic stories in my head while the sunshine grazed my skin from the sheer curtains and the town was already alive by then and i shouldn’t wait to paint it black because oh, how you always preferred blue when we used to paint it together

we don’t do that anymore

here’s to hoping you never want to do it ever again, at least not with me, because i’ve sobered up and my mornings have been optimistic ever since - optimistic in the way that your sentiments don’t need to pull me in and chew me up any longer - and my nights have usually been occupied by cups of coffee that you and i would’ve had in the mornings if only you didn’t leave

but you’re gone anyway and i woke up trying not to think about that

—

ii.

and then not everything was about you, love

seconds ticked and minutes did after enough seconds and hours did after enough minutes and like the person i am, i did everything i was supposed to, from the papers i let my gaze fall on incomprehensibly and the floors i let my feet drag me through voluntarily because i just wanted to get everything right - it has long since been an addiction to want that for myself and you know that

the cashier at the grocery store a block away from my place smiled at me today and i gave myself permission to smile back because that’s what people do and her gray eyes reminded me of winter (winters i didn’t spend alone) and they were beautiful and i wanted the most ephemeral salvation - the kind that only lasted for a split second

i passed by the children’s playground on the way home and forced myself to walk faster because i heard the children’s tinkling laughs and pictured their tomorrows and created stories in my head like i always do semi-consciously

it was sunset by that time and i could only hold so much beauty in my vision - gray eyes were fine but life and youth were too much - before i crumble down

—

iii.

there was never a time that i beat you at hide and seek

(you were always too good at hiding, much too good)

but i never thought you’d be living in the darkest crevices of my head, much less that you’d come out and scream my name in the most haphazard times

the johnny cash record i set to replay endlessly tonight only reminded me of when you refused to come over but ultimately ended up tucking your feet in my duvet and plucking the dark chocolate in my fingers as they were a centimeter away from my lips (i don’t know why i chose tonight to play it but i did and was it foolish to hope it would matter to let you know?)

i sat on that godforsaken balcony (godforsaken because that’s where we had our first kiss) and sipped on chamomile tea (chamomile because you said it would calm anyone when we argued about tea preferences) and placed the cup away once it burnt my tongue - then i got lost in memory as i sang the songs you used to lull me to sleep with, but lullabies always turn up bittersweet, don’t they? it wasn’t winter yet but it escaped my notice that the cup of tea got too cold too fast

then again, doesn’t everything?

i dialed a number on the telephone desperately - my fingers fumbling in the process that i didn’t dare pray it would be existent, much less right - and i knew full well i promised myself never to call you again, i knew that, so i didn’t press the buttons to your number but part of me still died when it was his voice that i heard instead of yours

part of me still dies everytime i hear your voice in my head and i realize it’s the only instance i’ll ever hear it again

—

iv.

i headed to bed knowing it would be the very same process again tomorrow because i’d be alone and something ought to remind me again of how everyday should’ve been if only you stayed - one of your handkerchiefs appearing next to my socks in the drawer or maybe, just maybe, an old picture of us you haven’t yet taken away or i haven’t yet burnt

i headed to bed hating myself for being resentful over things i didn’t have any control over and being weak over circumstances i should just step away from instead of wallowing in but my sheets were too pristine and the silence was too deafening and these tears were already too cliche and —

i’ve had enough

here’s to hoping i’ll spend the rest of tomorrow not anymore keeping my fingers crossed to hear your lullaby and not anymore hoping you still think of me at times because it’s three in the morning and you haunted me too much already and i wouldn’t want to be haunted for the rest of my life

but you’d still stay behind my lids, i knew that, so i headed to bed trying not to figure out how long it would be until you’re really gone

Perhaps, not all words are necessarily daggers, despite the fact that all of them seem to be weapons. Some might be guns, instantaneously ending a life the second triggers are pulled (the moment they are uttered). Some might be the sharpest knives, severing every part of you unknowingly until the moment you’ve bled to death (words seeming harmless until it’s too late). Others might be rusty blades, eliciting muffled screams as they take their time in tormenting your skin and every vein beneath (words that agonize you ever so delicately).

And then there are paper swords.

Just like all the promises you’ve left me with.

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[your marrow is my lifeline] 

i’m breaking your heart and i can feel it
it aches because you ache and i shall too
teach me instead to break your bones
to break that beautifully unfamiliar clavicle
to break your carpals so tragically mine
just so i know they are more fragile than you

i’m breaking your heart and i can feel it
it kills because you die and i shall too
coerce me instead into breaking your lungs
to break them so you’d stop breathing first
to break your liver, your spleen or your eyes
so i wouldn’t have to hold your heart to kill you 

i’m breaking your heart and i can feel it
it’s strange because it’s mine now too
push me instead into breaking myself
to break these walls of mine into pieces
to break my coldness with a surge of warmth
maybe then i won’t have to break you

i am not here, not a fraction of an inch ---
nor will i ever be

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