How Pitiful It Must Be To Be God Don’t You Think? A Ray Of Sunshine Or A Dirtied Tile Of Hope? What

if you paint us like pressed flowers, will watering the blooming golds really make a difference? for you don't paint love, paintings blossom into vivid petals, with sunflowers turning to their love, no you don't paint, your hands trace over the pressed greens, definitive and sure, as if fate itself guided your hands. so perhaps if you drew me as a lover, perhaps i would've sent the letters i wrote to you, perhaps i wouldn't have been such a cynic to your light, and now i sit and wonder whether you'll read the note addressed to you tomorrow, or when you're 30 and quiet? i painted you a bleeding heart, was it mine or was it yours i do not know, you drew me as a pretty, lulling turn, but i painted the way gold blends into your dark hair, the blue of your hands, the liner on your eyes, i painted you, and in a twisted way i suppose, that is my way of saying i would've been yours, if only the flowers we plucked weren't already pressed, if the flowers grew, through time and space. I'm sorry i painted you the way i imagined it would be like, meeting you for the first time tomorrow, i preserve the flower i wish i had allowed to grow.

varsity football you tried so hard for, it'll always be my oversized jersey you'll be fit for. you asked if i wanted to write songs together, what at the risk of pooling in our blood and then stopping to realize the handwriting could've been better? the mountain air smells like you, your fingerprints run down my back along with my bangs over the sink. will you be picking oranges or blueberries the next time I see you? maybe by then I'll finally feel the same crinkles around your eyes, yours will, however be much deeper, how could I ever catch up? maybe we'll have one last walk together, you can tell me of the serenity you find in studio Ghibli movies I'll never watch and you can brush my hair while I wait for another season to cut them off. I think maybe the Siamese twins survived in another lifetime but you, please don't be a stranger in this one, even when your footsteps haven't touched our roads in years.

You can't drag me away from cities, no matter the serenity of small towns and farmhouses. Something unspoken about it always attracts me, so many lives, bursting with energy, each fast and bright in its own galaxy, none too similar to the other or to mine, and I, a lone observer, will never get enough of that feeling.

"asshole" i try to call you with all the conviction i can muster. how dare you tell me about her? I hate you i repeat and i repeat it till i'm sick. will saying it enough make it true?

it was supposed to be a friendly game of chess, but I suppose that made me forget we were still on the opposite sides of the board. you played a queen's gambit, and did win in the end, but failed to realize that entailed losing your queen too, until it was too late.

infinity is such a difficult concept to comprehend because humans aren't used to the idea of forever. everyday, something ends in our lives. we can't imagine anything not-ending that is real. our lives are defined by endings. anything related to us will aways end. we will die, another ending. infinity challenges the whole notion of the cycle of everything as we know it.

was it a sin to love you in our last lifetime my love, for which I am atoning for in this one?

exam season again y'all

(hi) (...)

i finished watching our conversation topic from a couple of months ago. the entire time, you were like a spider traipsing along my thoughts, quietly marveling at the silks you laid, carefully tucking in the corners of the bedspread I never learnt to spread. could you tell me once more, that I don't need to be right all the time? I think my compass is way wire, you haven't been singing for quite some time. my wrist still burns from when you dragged me to wonderland, the quickest film drawn out in painful hours only inside my head. We’ve been here before, the tunnel that won't end is yours, can you blame me for being afraid of heights or futures i can't quite graph on my hand? Won’t you let me scribble over your blue hands one last time? I won’t do it in permanent marker I swear, this last time.

As I flick through my camera roll, isn't it strange how everything is out of focus but you? How the blood you spilt seems brighter than the blood I shed?