Messy Love

I am a messy lover.

I leave traces of kisses, lipstick smudges, hairbreadth scratches, lingering traces of perfume—imprinting in your subconscious and memory of what kind of person you decide to keep. The kind of person that you need to consciously decide to be with. I will exist within your peripheries, a permanent mirage in the corner of your eyes. You will see me in every trace of your steps, even in places where I have never been or the places I won't ever be in. I will always cloud your conscious mind, every choices you make would stem from your observation of me.

I am a messy lover.

I restlessly cry over the smallest change in behaviors. I would take silence as a form of personal attack and rejection. Jackson Pollock's painting would look like proper scenery in comparison to my mind whenever I feel down. My lipstick smudges are not the only marks that you would find on your body, my bite marks would find themselves on you too.

I am a messy lover.

I have keepsakes of everything—even if they only exist in the recess of my mind. Your laughter, your voice, your favourite way of making instant noodle, your condiments preference (mustard with chili sauce please!), your anecdotes about your favourite online game (whatever the hell MMORPG is), your preference on antivillains (never antiheroes, my love), ticket stubs from the first movie we watched together, our favourite sandwich combo, where you put that one damn pen that you love so much but you always lose them, the scarf you got from your Mum during her trip back home to Finland, when your phone alarms ring, my dress that I donned when we first laid eyes on each other, tin of mints that you got me because I got nauseous after we went on a ride, our first fight over the smallest thing (it's a bookstore not a library I shouldn't talk in whispers), our first time leaving each other alone after a few years attached at the hip, the first mere second when you look at me differently, the time you moved out of our house, and the last time we saw each other (in court, I was wearing your favourite dress).

I am a messy lover.

Maybe that's why you left.