The Hiatus

I said, "I no longer remember your voice."
For I didn’t know it to be this strong.
Clouding the certainty within my choice.
Making me forget why this is wrong.

I don’t want to smile:

For each time I do,

I remember you…

If it is to catch your attention, I would still do it the next time you ask (only that a little preparation wouldn’t hurt :).

Yesternight
Was a dream
Of not my liking:
Where I went
And revealed myself,
For the first time,
To the largest crowd
I was ever revealed.

So, they did see
(I hope not with hearts)
What I really am.
For you opened my chest
And exposed my soul
To the world
Of yesternight.

"I do not jealous over your affairs,
For I am happy to see you smile."
Or so says the mind;
Yet the heart screams otherwise.

Not that I despair over your smile.
Only that when I glutton over that face,
I burn my heart in vain.

In your little world of candied sweat,
I suffer the role of casualties.
That fails to speak beyond metaphors
Of how you famish me of harmony.

So, you distress like none of all combined
And turn me outside-in so I taste my heart.
With incipient kindness to my affinity.
That later painted my disdain for me.

Such disdain of extreme ranges
By which I am at the blackest end.
As black as your back is white.
As white as my darkest nights!

There’s nothing for me but broken glass;
That spreads on this floor like a carpet;
Welcoming visitors with red grandeur,
Only to bring them pain later.

And rightly, they complain.
Usually with hurting gazes or killing apathy.
Not often do they shout.
But when they do,
’tis with voices of such disdain and scorn;
That I sulk to myself and curse my blood.
For it is this blood that made the carpet red.

So, I walk everyday with floor like this.
Sleeping and waking with nothing but this.
Trudging, even crawling through pieces of glass,
I increase the amount of blood on the floor.
Like petals of red roses, they shine with the moon.

Until once upon a time,
You came floating, an empty soul.
Never seeing the floor down below.
Never hurting with pain of glass cuts.
You came to refill your soul.
Only that I need most of them for myself.

Tell me, how do I enjoy my eyes,
More than when I look at you?
Weeping with your thin lips.
Pleasing the perverted air around,
With your gentle breath of numbing smell.
With your skin of candied sweat.

I hide within myself.
And kneel against my wish.
To pray to whoever there is;
That you be the one to clean this mess.
And turn my world around,
Then turn it off.
And wait till it dies,
Sans this red carpet of broken glass.

There is no end for my hate.
For it started even before I was born.
And there is no other reason for this hate,
Other than hate itself.

So, now that you know that I hate you.
And all the drops of blood in your vast ocean.
Even that which is my own.
Leave me be.
For, even before I have known this hate.
I know that I have no escape:
This hate also hates the hater.

What is painful is the revelation
That even those who have not caused this hate;
Those who merely shared the same blood,
Are scorn by this hate.
So that I may as well deny my face.

"It’s sad
That your hate,
I could only reciprocate
With hate."

But I worry not.
For sooner or later.
Both you and I
And this hate will rot!

I is a remark.
An exclamation of delight.
A word of the proud;
The hollow of the weak.
It usually appears
When the self elevates
From the recesses of a crowd
To sometimes,
The domain of the gods.

I is a pronoun.
A substitute of the self.
A mask, some may say.
That hides the wrinkles
Of age and suffering.
For it is young.
As young as they
Who dare speak it.
Few are those
Who realize
That when they speak I
They become immortals.
Ageless with overflowing youth.

Yes, I is infinite.
For humans die and perish.
But I does not.
And I is the one.
The only one.
Even that which
Suffers the peril
Of hate and love,
Without end.

Don’t you see?
I is the one.
For I is alone…

Hence, I is nothing.
If it isn’t a mark—
A separation,
Where the self ends
And You begins.

And You,
You, my dear,
Is everything!

When you’re falling
Into her being,
Ever accelerating.
With every smile,
And look and touch.

Even how subtle.
Even how small.

You see yourself
Frowning upon the sun.
— Hurrying to hide
Under the shade
Of the evening moon.
For you see yourself
Falling with frail bones.
With frail bones
Of vanity and lies.
Of worthless weight.
And heavy souls.
And you try to shun
Images of her from your mind.
And you somehow succeed.
Only to see yourself;
Falling not for her images.
But simply for her.
Falling.
Without drag.
Into the infinity of her soul.
Into the pain of her memories.

Even how subtle.
Even how small.

And so, you realize.
The inevitability of gravity.
Once you’ve started to fall.
Into subdued semblances of her.
In everything that you see.
In everywhere.
For everytime.

But then, this is your fault.
You are the hand that pushed
Yourself to the edge of reason;
Into her sweet intoxications.
Of sweet smiles and gentle breaths.
Of comforting bosoms and lovely lips.

Perhaps you could’ve been better?
Rescued by her.
But she doesn’t care.
So now, you could’ve been better
Either way.