I am finally beginning to see the things I was blinded about when I loved you.


Small Talks

Small talks.

That’s not what I crave for. Tell me your biggest fears, your worst nightmares. The person you always dreamed of becoming when you were a kid, and why you think it’s an improbable dream now that you’re grown up. The reason why you never finished reading a particular book. Tell me what ticks you off and how you’re able to find peace just by looking at the serene night sky. Tell me about that old man you saw in the train, clutching his own cane, alone. Or how you would rather not wear your jacket in the midst of a February midnight breeze. Tell me about your frustrations and what makes you hate people so much. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else before.

I wanna know the depths of your mind, see the shadows of your heart. I want to embrace your humanity—you as a person of vulnerability and strength, not just another being forced to live just because you were given life. I want to trace my fingers through every inch of the scars your soul acquires every time you find yourself lost and no one heard your cries. Because I want to be that person who hears. I want to kiss all your bruises whenever life knocks you down yet you still find a way to wake up everyday with a forgiving smile. I want to be the person who helps you heal your ache. I want to be the one you find yourself at home with whenever you cannot seem to find a place where you can fit in this desolate world.

All I want is to be that someone who never leaves you at your lowest point. Who bears with you no matter how rough and ugly things could get. That someone who believes in you when you don’t. Not because I want the same intense of affection from you in return, but because I know exactly what it feels to yearn for a company that’s never there, and I don’t want you to feel that way.

And it’s okay, if you cannot be the same for me, trust me.

I’ll be okay.

Muffled Harmony

You speak to me
as bright as winter’s glow
catching each breath of snow
I take in dearly;

You speak to me
as though the sun had set
for the stars to shine free,
as though rainbow’s end
weren’t fantasy;

You speak to me
like how chains clink
off of prisoner’s wrist,
leaving marks of sentence
but none of his regrets;

You speak to me
like those of artworks in a gallery
an incomprehensible picture
none ever understood
but you and me;

You spoke
like nobody ever did,
and with those mem’ries I’ll keep
’til tremors of thunder
no longer
muffled our harmony.


Strange Woman

I stand in front of a mirror
eyes skeptic,
darting from one angle
to the other of my reflection;

Am I the same, or
have I changed?

Finding evidence in the bruises,
or any hand prints,
or any marks
that may suggest
of the dimmed, heated night
though there was none…

Except from the pulsing pain,
I find oddly and sweet
swinging backwards and forwards
there and again;

At last,
a breath escaped from my lips,
I turned my back against it
now willing to leave,

But something gnaws,
unwordly thoughts,
perhaps remorse
or triumph all the same,
piercing from the eyes
of the person before I,

Was it truly me,
standing in front of a mirror,
or a strange woman entirely?

Chaos In My Mind

It’s a chaos in my mind
I need to write
but my hands are tied,
and the ink is dried;

is not something
I try to find,
is rather a thing
of superficial and lies;

It’s a chaos in my mind
yet despite of it all
I do not hear any voice
let alone my own;

Wordless feelings
wordless thoughts
wordless nothing and everything at the same;

How to end,
How to begin?


She cannot remember the days when angels would sing hallelujah,
echoing along the drift of clouds above,
or when it’s rather an endless rain ceasing the rise of daybreak;

She neither would count the weeks of how long it’s been since the tulips started blooming, for he helped her water it with such sweet wine,
or when she no longer finds herself walking on a paved road, but instead balancing on a tight rope suspended hundred feet up;

Because days and nights don’t matter,
time and numbers don’t either;

It all comes down to wonders, boiling under the distress of her mind, yearnings of her heart, longing of her soul—

It all comes down to faith, burning like a raging forest fire—

It all comes down to passion, and the inevitable anguish it entails,
that she finds her feet running towards to,
finally returning home, as if she’s lived the life of a gypsy,
wandering the unknown.

No Longer Found

No thing
lasts a hundred,
a million, gazillion,
years of future,

even the tallest
of mountains, and
the deepest of
oceans, and
lovers they thought
eternally bound,

all but crumbles
into sad
’til even that
can no longer
be found.