Hello, It Isn’t Me.

Louis T., 2013. “Always” (p. 28, para. 9)

a.k.a. This is actually about the day after we got married

An aftertaste remains permanent on my tongue like the kiss stains on my hair. The curtains keep calling out for the sun to get out of the room, and you notice I do the same. But you still travel your fingers on my naked skin. The night before shines on your eyes and I already miss your moans. You get up and scare off the sunlight, scolding it that it’s hurting me. I hold out my hand and caress your shadow dancing on the bed sheet. I hear you whisper, “I’ll make breakfast.” You make your way to me and pass the stars on your lips to the skies deep down my throat. But you didn’t move at all after that. We keep on tracing the constellations on our mouths. The bed creaks loudly, but I can hear the smile forming on your face as you fix yourself beside me again. “Have me instead,” I mumble, then I grin. I’m happy. You’re happy. We’re blissfully staring at each other’s eyes, knowing that finally, we won. But today is another day, and so is tomorrow. There will be mountains to climb again, and I know we both need each other to keep our feet chained on the ground. I wouldn’t let you sail off without me. You wouldn’t let me drown without you. “I love you,” you sing to me. And I hum, “Always.”

(eusie.)

i think the reason why we we're still with each other is that we're afraid of being alone again. and we know that finding love again would take time

“Sometimes I wonder / if I’m really the best / person for this body.”

— — John Elizabeth Stintzi, from “Salutations From the Storm,” Junebat

so here it is

a.k.a. and i told you, and i told you, so please listen

i told you at ten past three in the morning, we don’t have winter but when i press the end call each time you say good night, i feel a little chill as if your voice is meant to be a camp fire on cold night but instead, it’s a landslide — a hurricane — a snowstorm — and i told you at twelve past three in the morning, i should feel guilty and i should feel bad, but i don’t, and nothing ever comes pouring out of my lips, even the word ‘sorry’ each time you cry and say that it’s your fault, when really, it’s mine, and i told you at thirteen past three in the morning, i don’t feel you slipping away, but i feel myself running away, and i don’t even see myself muttering a goodbye, but i said to you, i will, oh i definitely will, and i told you at fifteen past three in the morning, i do remember when we asked each other to never let go, i do, i do, i do, and i told you at sixteen past three in the morning, i really i hope i won’t let go just like you won’t, and i wish it’s true, and i told you at eighteen past three in the morning, i’m not going to cry, but my heart is aching, and i hear myself sniffling, and i find myself looking at the mirror, with stars on my cheeks where your kisses used to sleep, and i know, i just know, that it’s been a long time since i told you i’m in love with you, and i cry again a little bit, and you’re crying too, and you’re saying sorry again, muttering it’s your fault, but it’s not, and i told you at twenty-one past three in morning, i just miss you, i long to kiss you, and i want to bury myself in your arms, and if you choose to leave me because of how these pieces of mine that are on the floor are way too shattered, your fingers will bleed, so you’ll end up giving up from saving me, i said i would be okay, because i’m a mess, and i told you at twenty-three past three in the morning, i love you, and i told you at twenty-eight past three in morning, i’m in love with you, when i finally stopped crying, when i finally calmed myself, i told it again, and you ended the call, and i told you at thirty past three in the morning, ‘it’s okay’ when you call and say sorry, and then i say it’s my fault, and then i say ‘good night’ without another ‘i love you’, and i still feel alright

(eusie.)

but... i can't write anymore

Run before everything around you starts to ignite —  no, stop and take the match before it turns into fire.

January 18, 2014 (eusie.)

P.J.Q.

“It’s true, you’re beautiful.”

— don’t... please...

(eusie.)

I thought of you again

I. I don’t know is not the same as Maybe. I know that you already know this. When you want collide them both just to see their differences, there will be an infinite of numbers — close to millions. But would you really waste your time in doing so? When you can’t even measure out our distance and cut them off just to let me caress your face?

II. I am lost, in which everyone seems to agree but no one dares to give me a map just to find myself, just to help me out of your forest. No one did but still, they search for me, yearn for me, and beg me to come out and save myself from you. Why? Tell me, do you breathe fire? Tell me, will you suffocate me with the words coming out of your mouth? Oh, but it seems to me that I am dizzied with them — every day you feed me with your words, right? You whisper them right through my ear, and sometimes just above my naked skin, you linger your breathing. But no, you do not breathe fire; you breathe dandelions and lilies, and tulips and roses. I am the one who breathes fire. Maybe that’s why you won’t let me get to you; you’re the only who touches me and you won’t let me do it to you. Maybe that’s the reason.

III. There are questions in my head, and they steal all the air in my lungs. Do they seek for answers? Do I seek for answers? Quite, but I yearn for them in you. They are heavy; they make me lifeless and if you weren't around to kiss me, giving me a little life, they’d kill me in a split second. Should I come to you to free them? Or should I just freeze myself, and lock myself away? Since I am scared, I am afraid, I am frightened… of what you’ll say, of what’ll happen because these questions, they might become bullets moving in a flash; they’ll pass through my head in a wink of an eye once you answer something I don’t want to hear.

IV. I am a child; you are my playmate. Picture this: we've been playing happily around for quite some time now, but in times that you leave… I am left behind, waiting for you to come back. Sometimes, you’ll be here after a day, an a hour, a month, a week, two days or five, three weeks, six hours… yes, you come back and you come back with a warm smile, then I welcome you just as equally, forgetting the times I was doubting you wouldn't.

V. It’s because I love you that I always wait for your return, even if sometimes keeping pace with time is tiring that I hope that I’ll stop looking out of my windows for you. And before I know it, my palms are cold and I’ll die of just sweating. Then I’ll remember you again, and I’ll hate you for a while. At some time later, I’ll be back to normal. Yes, I am crazy. I’m sorry. But what I really want to know is when I ask you “Will you ever come back and just stay with me for good?” I hope you won’t give me the words I don’t know or maybe. You should already know why I won’t swallow them. And if everything screws up and you’ll end up in my place, I really want to know… how long will you wait for me to come back? How long will you sing a thousand of melodies just to never bore yourself while you stitch in your crowded mind that you love me; because whenever I wait for you, that’s all I think about but sometimes, I really hope I don’t.

( ayen. & eusie. )

two hearts tiptoeing across shreds of an old vase of red roses

eles (eusie.)

an interview with my neighbor

part 1: mr jameson coles

frozen cookies are his favorite snacks; he said he likes his heart cold. he even likes to fill the path to his house with burned out roses. “because no one likes a love dwindled to nothing,” he replied when i asked why. sad love, sad love, sad love, i heard his eyes whisper. my heart ached. he always met sunrises with cold coffee which he made every night before. and he didn’t care if his shower won’t work anymore. “where do you take baths then?” he answered that his soul keeps wandering around anywhere but here. he likes the smell of nails. and he said he knows what everyone thought of him. the paintings in his living room always sing to him in a melody that resembled a voice in his past. he didn’t tell me a name. but he said his past liked every time it snows. “do you like it when it snows?” he then asked me. then there was a story behind his eyes that echoed out memories. sad love, sad love, sad love, i heard myself whisper. he secludes himself; he said it’s because he’s waiting. for a future he planned long ago with someone who’s not here anymore. the room surrounded us with an atmosphere that felt like i was traveling backwards. a howling wind screamed pain throughout as he looked outside the windows. then slowly, but tearfully, he murmured, “a sad love, isn’t it?”

(eusie.)