Then how come it isn’t?

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The last time I kissed her, I kissed her with a little more passion than our lungs could hold on to. I let my hands pull her in, and my eyes close to make sure I remembered what she was like.
She tasted like a Monday morning I didn’t hate and dirty coffee mugs of the night before. She tasted like grocery shopping where we ended up with just a stick of gum, and the cashier gave our smiles and giggles a weird glance cause clearly we shouldn’t shop at 3 A.M? She tasted of sunrays and tanned skin, and of crazy ways to seduce each other. She tasted like a cold November night on the terrace with my arms around her and her head on my chest and our eyes on the stars. She tasted like broken frames and mended hearts and salty tears and not being able to stay apart.
She reminded me of the time I ran my fingers through her hair, and she ran her fingers through the knots in my souls. She reminded me of the time I kissed her salty skin right after coming out of the sea, and her fingers holding onto my wet hair and pulling me in. She reminded me of sleeping all day and watching Barney all night. She reminded me of soft chuckles, and loud moans.
She was my ‘Irish’ coffee and she was the Rachel to my Ross. She reminded me of moonlight on her knees as I trailed my fingers up. She reminded me of empty bottles and half-eaten snickers. She reminded me of promises that smelled of chocolate cookies and assurances of being in Wonderland if I ever fell again.
She tasted like an eternity and reminded me of the fault in our stars. We could not end up together, but we did have a bigger infinity than we ever imagined we could have. She was the Robin to my Barney and the little forever she gave me was legen – wait for it – dary.
Didn’t you think you’d meet someone, fall in love and that’d be it?


Previous post : Fairy-tale love.
Related post : Kisses and cravings.

Fairy-tale love.

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“Someday you”ll be old enough to start reading fairy-tales again.” – C.S. Lewis

He was real. She didn’t think he would be.
The first time he laughed,
it was like fireworks in the night sky.
She could look at him and
see all the hues of emotions that colored his skin
as his lips curled from one end to another.
She could hear the waterfalls crashing hard against the broken stones
as he giggled like a child who’d just found a new toy.
She felt his chuckle spread warmth to her cheeks and
the corner of her eyes creased
like the white shirt he was wearing.
It was beautiful.
He was beautiful.

He always kept his word.
He made the chocolate chip cookies he had promised on a Sunday morning,
and he stayed while I cried at 3:04 am.
He expressed himself with a tint of mystery,
but with no boring exaggeration.
He wrote me letters,
on tiny post-its
The words he wrote, are probably what my favorite novel holds.
He made me breakfast,
And took me out on dates.
He had the exotic manners
of a fuckboy,
and the raw sexuality
of one, too.
But he had the intentions of a wallflower,
the introvert with faith rimmed spectacles,
and a love stained tee.

He could cook my favorite Madeleines.
He could dance,
And spin me around in circles till I fall into his arms,
As he picks me up and we make out,
On the way to bed.
I knew he was my fairy-tale love,
When we grabbed me by the waist,
pushed me against a wall, and held my hands above my head,
Looked me in the eye till I couldn’t just look anymore,
I kissed him for the first time.
And my foot just pops up.


Previous post : Stay.
Related post : Cinderella’s shoes.

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Writer’s block

So, what is writer’s block?

Do you remember that time
when his little finger grazed your wrist,
amidst the whispered conversation,
steady eye contact, and
lip gazing?
How you stuttered on the next word,
fumbled between your thoughts,
trying to forget the shiver
running up your spine, like
a dew drop on the foggy window?
You just could not remember
what you had to say next.

Do you remember that cliff,
the “What if you fly” split seconds,
the hopes for a wonderland,
an escape from this cruel world,
at the bottom of the fall?
You wanted to shout out to the mountains,
and hear them talk in response,
for they really were the best listeners.
You opened your mouth,
but no words came out,
what did you have to say?

Do you remember that stage,
your first audience,
all those gawking eyes,
on your dried lips,
and anxious eyes.
Your heart beating so loud,
the mic would’ve probably caught it ,
had you not held it high enough.
Do you remember the struggle,
to remember just the first damn word?

It’s almost like that.
But don’t worry,
I don’t believe in a dam being strong enough
to hold back the tsunami of my words.
I don’t believe in writer’s block.


Previous post : Bare waists and midriffs.
Related post : Tsunami

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Bare waists and midriffs.

I don’t know why every time his fingers trail my bare waist, I feel much more than just the shiver of intimacy run up my spine.

I try to wander the corridors of my mind to find out why he feels much more than just someone I make out with.

I cannot help but notice that it’s much more than just his hair that I grab onto now. I often envelop his hands so tightly with mine.

I wake up late into the nights and crave for his lips to be pressed against my neck, and I fall asleep with my hands wrapped around the pillow as if it were him.

I repeatedly catch myself thinking about him as I tie my hair back into the ponytail that he obsesses over.

Whenever he picks me up, and looks me in the eye, I don’t look at his lips while biting mine anymore. Instead, I kiss his nose and his chest, and feel his heart beating against my lips. I think of his smile as his kisses just grazes my midriff.

Why do I get all excited and tensed as he softly tucks my hair behind my ear?

I don’t know.


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Previous post : Palettes of life.
Related post : Kisses and cravings.

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Mirages and ink bottles.

I am a pen. This might sound like a metaphorical exaggeration, or an ornamented fact, but it is what I am. Every time I hear the same song that you loved on the radio, it’s like a cut on the side of my arm, and the ink just flows out. Every nick and cut that I get onto my calloused skin, just turns into a bruise that I wear as battle scars and gripping stories. Every time I look at the sunlight through the tinted windows of my car, I cannot help but associate the golden hue to the hazel of your eyes. Every time I look at the vast emptiness that expands beyond the final steps of a cliff, I cannot help but imagine the jagged rocks hidden in snow to be my best friends crooked front teeth, or the jump to the bottom to hide stories of wonderland. You never know what’s hiding just beyond the point your eyes cannot see.

I don’t consider myself a writer, or the pen as a fancy extension of my arm. I don’t believe in using words to heal my pain, or writing as an escape from this cruel world. I don’t make routines and set time periods for the words to find a way out, and I don’t plan on keeping them inside of me where the dark waves can hit the sun drenched sand and wipe them away. I am not a lonely or broken man wandering on hot sidewalks among a cluster of thoughts and people, wondering why you left me, or why no one talks to me the way you did.

When I see the wailing child staring at the ice cream vendor as if that’s all he ever wanted, I cannot help but smile and think about the wishes I’ve had as a child and even as an adult. And when all of this stays in my mind, my brain becomes a volcanic land with words as molten ink, erupting onto snow sheets, paper lines, and electric screens. I don’t wait for the right moment or for the memorable one. I just find things beautiful, and I let you know. When an injured boy cries on the television and countries blow up, or a young girl is found dead on the streets, or you’re just the happiest you could ever be, you’ll bleed blue too. We all will. There’s nothing hiding beyond the point your eyes cannot see, except mirages and an ink bottle.


Previous post : This damn world.
Related post : Tsunami

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