Back to You

How terrible it is,
to love something Death can touch.

Isn’t that always the way somehow?
Those meant for eternity are
the ones marked by the fires of Fate,
tested and torn apart.

Which is harder?
To be the one who left,
or to be the one who survived?

To be the one who will sit at the edge of the Underworld,
stolid eyes set on the horizon,
waiting and hoping and waiting?

Or to be the one who will visit the graveyard for all the years to come
and water the shriveled, wilted flowers with tears?

Maybe this is why they say there’s life after death,
because in my end is my beginning –

For those who are meant to be
will find their way back to each other,
in this life and the next.
And every life after that.

Those fated to be star-crossed
will dance together under the stars again;
in the next world,
if not this one.

My Way

It’s like, we talked in spirals, you know?

You and me. It’s been the same since we were kids, running around all the rides in the playground.

Everything is in circles with us. Every conversation, every joke, every sigh – we’ve been there before a million times.

You knew all my triggers, you knew how each tear would stain. So much so that one time you decided that the basketball game was more important than the mascara on my pillowcase.

‘She’s got daddy issues, you know.’, is what you said to our friends over brunch next Sunday, when I quit and was nowhere to be found.

Fast forward seven years, and it’s you, me and my one-week old boyfriend who greeted you with a ‘hola hermano’ in a shady little club in the downtown area. He raced off to the keg-stand to put money on his little brother when you finally leaned in and whispered,

‘What do you see in him, anyway?’

All the Sunday brunches and pool parties I’d missed, what for?

I let the moment linger, that one moment when it feels like you’re moving through molasses and everything that’s been out of focus for so long is finally making sense.

That moment when you look out to see your boyfriend throwing up all over the place while your ex-lover’s gaze beholds you.

The moment passed.

‘You see him? He doesn’t wear Gucci, or drive a Porsche, or has a future in any sense of the term. But when he hurts me, he doesn’t do it on purpose. When I wake up in the middle of the night, shivering and stone cold, he doesn’t turn over to his side. When there’s make-up running down my face, he doesn’t say, “Fix yourself up, we have a party to attend to.”

That’s why I ran in the first place.’

‘And what are you gonna do when all the tricks stop working and the toy’s broken?’

I took a sip of the warm beer from my plastic cup. It tasted good.

‘I’ll run again.
It’s kinda my thing now.’

good boy, Bad girl

What if your first love is your last one too?

What if your high school lover is the one you’re thinking about in the middle of a meeting twelve years later?

I still remember the night we first met. I know you do too. Party crashers and tequila shots and keg stands – the usual scene. I never really believed in fairytales and stories about Prince Charming, but I remember musing that I could almost feel the flames the moment our eyes met.

I remember standing with you on the beach in the pouring November rain, under the stars and the citylights. The ocean mist flapping through my hair; I prayed for nothing to ever change. And I’ve never been a huge fan of clichés, but somehow I find myself breaking all my rules for you.

I remember when I said goodbye before leaving for college, outside that café in the summer haze. Walking away, every step made me wonder – if I’m not supposed to stay, why is it so hard to leave?

But there you were at the airport, when I came home for the holidays next summer.
I’d always thought that our lives were tangled but never intertwined. Too young to stay, so all I did was run.
On and off, up and down – we kept ebbing into and out of life like the waves we’d once stood by. Until different timezones made me think before calling you up at 4 A.M.

“Anna?”

”Huh?”. I’m definitely getting fired one of these days.

“Any thoughts?” My boss’ eyebrows were arched upto his hairline.

“I think…it’s a great idea.”

“Well, it’s settled then. Until next time.”
The man’s brows returned to Earth and I thanked the Gods for another month’s rent.

“Hey, you wanna grab some lunch? Everyone’s coming.”

“You guys head out. I have to make a call.”

There’s a three hour time difference between New York and LA.

I cross my fingers as I press dial and hope that sometimes, you too reminisce about the ocean breeze and summer air and all the endless nights we spent together.

Don’t say you love me.

I’ve never really understood how people say they ‘loved’ someone.

How can you say that you loved someone once but you don’t anymore?

How do people fall out of love?

How can someone be your entire world and then just, not be there anymore?

So we’ll get ice-cream together, dance in the rain, stay up till morning light talking about our pasts and our future, stray under the yellow streetlights at midnight until one day the morning waffles don’t taste the same anymore and none of the late nights seem worth it any longer.

Don’t say we are forever if you don’t mean it, because I might just end up believing you.

Don’t say you love me if it doesn’t mean the same to you as it does to me, because I’ve spent far too many nights on bathroom floors, trying to numb the pain out.

Don’t say you love me if you won’t stay the night; because when I think of love, I wish I didn’t think of pain.

Stay the night.

Dancing in the rain, I keep coming back to you again and again…

We were lovers, though one night you’d said to me that’s something we’ll always be.
Just like the song that played in the club the night our eyes first met, the taste of your lips tonight is something I’ll never forget.

I still remember our first kiss in the rain, in that alleyway, when you tasted like stale vodka in the downpour under those divine streetlights.

For all the lovers and scars and other terrible things I’ve tried, you’re the only one I’ve ever gotten high on.

And so, here we are. On the couch in my apartment, after all these years, almost as predictable as a movie. The pain from the past blocks my vision like a cloud of stain as I try to navigate through the white noise in my head. But I don’t really care, just like back in high school, and sophomore year.

My heart’s yours for now, even though we both know we’re a couple of sadists.

You are the one.

But you shouldn’t be the one.

And suddenly, as I’m listening to your heart beat, I hear myself asking you to leave.

Cause babe, boys like you taste like infinity but never stay the night.

Stained.

You corrupted everything.

I still can’t think of waffles on a Monday morning without thinking of you.
I still can’t listen to the songs we danced to at midnight without feeling my hand give in.

I remember feeling you breathe, late one Sunday evening, when you told me that you fake pretence when you have to.

And I said that I don’t.

Because I don’t know what grey is. I never did.

I should have walked away right then. Little did I know that you’d been wearing your mask ever since the moment I first met you.

Every lane we’ve walked down together, every café we had coffee in, the rain in this little town – everything seems tainted now.
Our seas met, but the gulf remained.

Knowing that it’s over hurts.
But knowing that it never was; that’s the poison that killed us both.

Hurting.

human
/ˈhjuːmən/
adjective

1. of or characteristic of people as opposed to God or animals or machines, especially in being susceptible to weaknesses.

See, the thing is, ever since you’re a kid you are asked to shut your mouth every time you burst into tears.
Your Mom looks at you helplessly, your Dad calls you weak and walks away, your friends call you a crybaby.

So you grow up to believe that emotions are your Achilles heel. You figure out that maybe tears are a show of vulnerability and you learn to cry yourself to sleep, hiding them from the world so that you no longer embarrass your parents.

But then one day you’re hanging out in the cafeteria with your friends after college and one of them says,”You dont ever cry, do you ?”.

Yes.

I do.

On the bathroom floor at 3 AM.
Because that’s what they taught me.

So, instead of raising humans, the society ended up raising a generation of kids who don’t know what to do with the mess in their heads.

We ask for food when we’re hungry.
We ask for water when we’re thirsty.
What stops us from asking for love when we’re hurting ?