Summer’s Night

Doesn’t it seem quite right
To be with you in the summer’s night
And won’t we miss it so,
When its all gone and dead leaves fall
Upon the tombstone of forgotten love?

The poems I write will be ripped by a crow
And the love I proclaim will be taken by Life
And the words not spoken will soon slither to Snakes

So this love will last forever,

until its end.

The heart has mysterious yet clear intentions

The heart has mysterious yet clear intentions. It could not be so if were it not human. Today, I don’t know if that is a flaw or a treasure. I suppose it could be ambivalent; what things are not?

The blue sky just outside my window is lightly dusted with clouds, and as I write this, it opposes me. I long for the harmony of these afternoon heavens, and wonder if I will ever find it. The world has not been kind to me these last few years; the sun is yet to completely rise upon my troubles. I do not struggle with the ever-lasting tug of war, pertinent to my soul, which once converted my days into profound pits of pain. The hurricane, however, has made its target my boredom.

I am so bored of this world! How could I not be? In what alternate reality could I not be? I schedule my every breath and calendar my every wink. The spontaneity and novelty of life has long withered into dust – less than dust! The particles of it are not visible anymore and even the atoms have shied away from my presence. I dearly desire the past. I desire the feeling, to remember the feeling. The last time I felt like so, it was long ago, in a fairy-tale remembrance…

The air felt sweet, smelt sweet, tasted sweet. It just was. The hearts beat faster than the pumps of an engine. The closeness of each other! Oh, but it only felt as if we were close, because we weren’t. My hand was on the arm rest, and so was his. And who was to blame them if their proximity ignited a naïve passion? There would be no one to blame him for how he slowly grabbed my pinky and approval determined my hand to have the same fate; it was inevitable. It happened as it was supposed to happen. He held my hand the entirety of the film, and then we left. Nothing sparked a fire later on. Only a candle was lit in my heart. A candle merely imitates a fire, but rarely kindles it, and in the depths of my innocent heart, this was known.

It now seems a childish experience, but it is not. It was more than that; more than an experience. It tattooed itself into the bottom of my subconscious self and made a nest out me. It was not the romance – better romances have been told – but the emotions. The rapid breaths were more than so and the immortal connection between our skins was more than what it seemed to be. It was the spark. I wish for it once again: a spark that will not ignite a fire, that will not do any harm, and yet lights a candle never seen before.

There is a light blue afternoon sky saluting me from outside my bedroom window, and I wonder, if my destiny will grant me this sustenance.