You: Burnt-Orange

Monday, May 15, 2017 Comments Off

You pointed at the burnt-orange building, "That was it, that was the place where I first loved."

I almost cried at that, here I was so focused on imagining our lives intertwined together that I forgot the fact that your life had been tangled in a mess that I do not wish to unravel. I had momentarily forgotten that you had already had your own share of envisioning a shared life with someone else, someone that you could love, someone that you did love.
I did not dare to ask if that building was the first place where you fell in love, or made love to, or even being told that you were loved. I couldn't bring myself to inquire because I knew whatever the answer that would come out of your mouth wouldn't make me happy in any way.
So I stayed silent, inactively persuading you to continue to tell more of your stories in order to be awed by the history of you. For the most part, I wanted to hear how you led your life, especially since you had almost a decade ahead of me.
You rambled on, decidedly not explaining further about the history behind that burnt-orange building. And I had never been masochist enough to ask further. I had already been crushed by the realization that I could never ignite that same passion when you pointed at that burnt-orange building, I could never inspire feelings so strong that you could condemn and worship a building in the same breath.

Collection of Recollection, Part IX

Sunday, April 9, 2017 Comments Off

you don't
worth the weight
you have on me

do soulmates
an expiry date?
time limit

they say
you don't meet people
by accident,
then meeting you
must have been
a predestined scheme,
something that even
the universe has conspired.
or perhaps,
it's just our atoms
calling out to find their kin

all these
imaginary scenarios,
of us existing together
with each other
for each other,
where do they live
when reality rejects them?
unlisted location

maybe this is what
we want from
each other:
that we are not
as harsh, as intolerable,
as difficult, as impossible,
as cumbersome, as unlovable
as we thought we both are

I am addicted to
the way you made me feel;
how you claim
our intimacy,
our connection,
our closeness
as something valuable
personal achievement

it feels like
your soul
trying to
claw its way
out of your skin,
out of life,
out of reality
anxiety and heartbreak

I am collection of:
and questions;
all for you

where does
romance go
when it is not

what's the
of an almost?
a question mark

the saddest part
about us not happening
is the fact that
we can never be
each other's support system,
even though
we, desperately,
and need one

Side Note

Sunday, April 2, 2017 Comments Off

Dear Hofstadter,
We are a side note: something you'd put at the end of each of our biographies. An afterthought. It is there as an additional something to make the story more colourful, to make both of us more relatable; because, well, who would want to be misunderstood? Who wouldn't want to find a passing soul as their mirror?

But that's all we could ever be: a passing. Not something that settles, not something that rests, not something that stays. Only a passing moment in between both of our orbits, both of us blooming and blossoming into spectacular comets. In this vast cosmos, our chance to collide is slimmer than none. Perhaps we are better if we weren't to collide, well, at least that's what I've been trying to convince myself. 

I used to think that we are better off in a safe distance, where both of our own gravity keep us apart but close at the same time; but it would only hurt me. I could have gone off on another path, discovering everything that is to know about the universe while making you just a temporary pit stop. A pit stop which mimics my non-physical attributes; though the big difference between you and me is the fact that I'd crash into your course anytime, yet you try to manage a distance between us in order to keep yourself safe. But, being safe from collision, consequently from explosion, also means that you'd be safe from the bang, from the brightness that could envelop us, and from the fire that could consume us.

There are a lot of things that we could have said to each other. A list full of dismantled truths and kind intentions. We deserve honesty from each other by disclosing our wants, needs, fears, and anxieties.

Maybe all that we could ever be is a casket full of longing and an urn full of what-if scenarios.

Real side note: everyone wants us to explode. Can't you hear them humming around us?

Warmest regards,
Your faithful mirror.

Collection of Recollection, Part VIII: Inebriated 2.0

Monday, March 27, 2017 Comments Off

these pieces were written in order for me to be able to completely flush you out of my system.
it worked.

the first time you kissed me, it was a hurried kiss--as if you were afraid if you didn't consume the moment, everything that we had done up to that point would disappear and we had to start all over again.
the time after that, it was all soft and forgiving. you allowed yourself to be vulnerable in front of me. the best kindness that you had given me that day. 
my expectation for the third kiss was that it would be like me riding a bike for the first time, with training wheels attached. a learning moment for me, but perhaps for you it wouldn't necessarily be, and you would require more patience and understanding than what you have generously given me before.
while the kisses after that wouldn't be able to be counted since, by default, the excitement would recede and sexual intimacy would increase. these kisses would be different, and from each one I'd learn new things.
and there would be a type of kiss that we both would hate. the type that would end it all, whatever it is.
but your kisses—your mercy—only worked for one night
and now, all I could ever hope to receive from you is understanding, giving up our sense of intimacy and kindly retaining your distance.
one merciful night, nothing more

even with my mind,
all lust-clouded
I always knew,
just like you,
that bottle of wine
was never mine

you do not want brutal things—
like falling in love,
clinging your soul to mine,
or maybe needing me,
yet you are giving me
the most ruthless
of them all:
a glimpse of something great
that could only exist in
both of our wanting eyes
and our needing minds
collecting your empty promises

maybe this is how
it feels like to have
your soul caressed,
your mind rested, and
your figure taken care of.
maybe this is what
it feels like to have
someone at my disposal
heeding all of
my wants and needs.
this is how it feels
to have this
temporary thing,
something that
life has deprived me of
our non-date

stealing you for a night,
wishing you were mine to hold tight,
drowning out noises in my head,
collecting enough of your stories to be read,
wanting to be drown in it,
knowing that you wouldn't submit to colliding our orbit,
being unapologetic for asking what I wanted,
accepting the fact I'd always be haunted.
— disassembling

by blurring the lines
between nothing
and something,
you've taught me
something entirely new;
something I hadn't thought
I'd get from you:
loneliness borne
out of learning that
both of us has
the ability to connect
without necessarily
establishing the connection

thanks to you,
I'm inspired to write more:
more heartbreaks,
more almosts,
more unfinished tales,
more what ifs,
though they're nothing new

well... almost.

Collection of Recollection, Part VII

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At the beginning of the year, my dear mother gave me a succulent.
It came in an intricate plaited pot, something that's not customary on other pot.
My mother told me that she would teach me how to grow it—how to see it bloom to its full potential.
It has been three months, and my plant is shriveling. Its leaves are rotting; what were once sturdy, flourishing with life and naively hopeful are now depleted of lush. All that I am left with is pale stem, currently withering from the lack of proper care.
I have tried to find ways to watch it blossom, not only as a decorative purpose, but as a living being. Yet, this trembling hands could never hold anything without breaking.

At the beginning of my life, my dear mother gave me a heart.
It came in an intricate figure, something that's not customary on other people.
My mother told me that she would teach me how to grow it—how to see it bloom to its full potential.
It has been twenty three years, and my heart is shriveling. Its faith is rotting; what was once sturdy, flourishing with life and naively hopeful are now depleted of lush. All that I am left with is pale hope, currently withering from the lack of proper care.
I have tried to find ways to watch it blossom, not only as a decorative purpose, but as a living being. Yet, this trembling hands could never hold anything without breaking.



Friday, March 24, 2017 Comments Off

Believe me when I say that I have prepared to draw back, or at least, I am preparing to do so. Drawing back from a battle that I know I'd lose even without having to necessary let it play out in front of my eyes. It has come to my attention that I should admit defeat and move on. By admitting defeat, I would let myself free from the burden of waiting impatiently.
I have collected enough of your empty promises to know that you could only provide a sense of intimacy while retaining your distance. But I promised myself to be true, moving on by acknowledging the truth. Moving on by being honest, setting the truth free to the world, all the while asking your kindness by supporting me to move on.

I deserve a certain degree of respect for being able to admitting the truth, for asking a kind of help that people do not usually ask. But you won't give me any of that. You prefer seeing me confused and helpless, all the while not letting me either apart from or close to you.

Post Admission: Day I
Insanity. You won't let me draw the line. You carried out, expertly I might add, a performance which I fooled myself into thinking this is real. But the only thing that's real, out of the whole act and performance, was your solid presence; neither your words nor your acts were real.

Post Admission: Week III
I envy my three-weeks-ago self. She was happy for having your solid presence in her life, even if it was only for less than twelve hours. But in retrospect, I won't let you play me like you would with your games. You cannot win when I am not playing at all, sweetie.

[Mabella Rehastri]

Flaming Star

Wednesday, March 8, 2017 Comments Off

or, as it has been requested by someone, Paradox in Love

my restless mind is asking for
kindness, and
but all I ever got from you are
speeding heart, and fire,
and flame, and flame, and flame.

I'm tired of this impossibility;
being in the edge of
romance and
with the knowledge that we can,
but we aren't,
with the fact that we could be,
but we'll never be.

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