The Loner I am

          I'm a loner. I enjoy being with myself sometimes. Even the breaking crisps of light make me feel safe. The cold whites of a sparkly night are all I need to relate to the universe around me. I enjoy being lost sometimes. I enjoy waking up to a new life. To a new self.

          You see, I do believe I was born in a time to which I do not belong. I insist to exist beyond the dimensions of life and death. 

         Above the fourth star to the left, they all gathered in black. It was a morose charcoal day. The oily olive green smell slid off mounting a whiff of nothing. Not a breeze. The spoons and forks were all wrapped in honey yellow plastic bag and scotched with a black tape. I wanted to look down to see but there was no downer than the down I was leaning from. They dressed painfully grey. A crying grey. Words were trapped inside their pink throats and jello minds. Their fingers were tall. Very tall and twiggy they were. It was a house of leaves. A nest of perpetual grief. Their knees were rusty and squeaky. The rust snuck halfway down all the way to just above where the cloth wraps strung the crimson red. They existed on a verge. A tinky winky pinky verge. The event was reeling with the woman's feet. Her white tall meat. Her perky toes and dark blue nail paint. Her very short dress and shorter hair. Her tears were starting to bulge on the surface of her sclera. Her sadness was somehow a gas puffing from her exquisitely drawn pink lips, like a fungus. Her sadness was of such exorbitance that 173 angels were roaming the moons above, sliding along the rings. Reluctantly waiting for her sweet sadness. A forbidden dessert encased and sent away to the world unknown, to that of life and death. It wasn't getting any darker. It simply addressed the fact that my sensations were alienated from my dimensions. My smell could here the void. My sight could feel the crispy dark dark. My love was not mine but the universe's again. I ceased to exist a person. I ceased to try understand. I perished beautifully into the universe I once was. I loved and lived the dust I once was. 

          Sometimes, I yearn my slightly aged blue jacket and lie down. I'm elusive from the honks and gear shifts down the street. I'm beyond the flickering yellow street lights. I'm not the neighbors. I'm not the street. I'm not the casting quivering shadows and tell tales the suburbs speak. I'm not the love I thought it was and what was sought to always be. I'm not the laughing clusters or the glass that faces the other to declare another cheers. I'm not the people. I'm not myself. What am I? I am what I create. I am the silence and the words I believe. I'm the few I manage speak. I am the past, the present, the future and something before the three. I am the forever now. I am the limited infinity. I exist between 0 and 1; in such small eternity.    

Lebanon Under Perception

"I swear to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth."

Growing up, it was thoroughly emphasized that it was of extreme importance that we relate to others on a basis of common ground. Our parents yelled at us for making information up. God was going to hang people lying; he was going to drop his infinite rope of sins and morose to silence those who fall short from the truth. (Oh mom, you have much to explain). Sometimes, holy punishment was too elusive for youth's perky minds, so chilly would do. Yup. Mom, also known as God's alleged candidate on Earth, would get you to taste some of that hellish red pain melting into your taste buds and squeezing out the salt and waters from your lacrimal glands. We were adhering to a common code of realism. Shocking enough it was to find out that we were only sharing an illusion. It was truly a lie.

You see, what is true is highly overrated. What is considered real is often what we perceive as fact. It is the belief of having a common perception that sets basis for materialism.

Growing up in Lebanon, I was never aware of how socially unaccepted my family's diversity was. It feels eerie acknowledging that midst a commercialism promoting 18 DIFFERENT SECTS sharing only 10,452 km squared of land- a true example for positive heterogeneity. Nonsense! Rising from wreckage the Lebanese parties left behind after the Lebanese Civil War in the late 1900s, it was a taboo to institutionalize a family having its corners from different mindsets. Coupling of different religions, different sects, and different political backgrounds or even from different geographical backgrounds was highly socially prohibited. A big no! Why? Just no. Society said so. (As if it was too complicated to admit that the society is but us, the individuals that make it up. Had we wanted change, then so was what's the society would have underwent.)

Now, it's time to stretch out from between the risky words, so excuse me or don't. Group A still holds the grudge from the unjust that was poured upon them throughout history and can't get over it to fall under order. Group B members still believe that no one knows politics more than they do. Wrong. Group C followers are somehow still convinced that they are the only to know French and wear manicure. D? Well, they just don't give a shit as long as their sect is fine. Talk about alienation. A planet for them to have!

It is quite very definite that corruption has devoured our perception of truth. What we have left is but a common set of man-made system that emphasizes boundaries and limits cohesion. So, by embracing such a system, we may actually establish a new format to share with one another: Lie. Lie! If what we relate to is but an illusion, if what the bonds that knit that fabric of "society" together were once created by a misguided perception, maybe we can create a new one. Maybe, just maybe, we can lie once again to paint over the dying cedars a green fallacy. We can love and live a new illusion. After all, belief was once the foundation for truth. So, lie ahead for only lies shall set you free. 

Oh! And remember that if anyone asks you about the civil war, about interrelationships between sects and religions or about why or how we ended up so divided upon ourselves, just lie.

Fusion

It, if condemned, shall not

shall never debunk

shall never reveal

that the doubts of one

and the acts of he

are fire and water

where opposites are sought to be

but the stance on the stiff underneath

is but an intersection

is but an intertwining beat

is but a perpetually ephemeral flee

apart, the fusion of the two to seek

Or dare I wonder

that hell and heaven will someday meet?

Or dare I wander

down the slopes claiming the treat

of what both have always wanted

of what both have always dreamed

of what once was a statement apart

of what then so we are to deem

So dare the devils within

frolic again

to fulfill an ought to be destiny?

Maybe it's not for us

but for the poles to part again

to someday their past repeat?

I honestly don't even know

Maybe I'll never do

Maybe it's or not meant to be

Sacrifice

The steel below me was as cold and lifeless as it could be. It seemed as though I was retaining an eerie sense of actualization. The taste of metal was increasingly frankly expressed. My sight was not initiated from a certain angle; the light was not reflected onto my eyes anymore. The light was not of much significance now. The dimension into which I was being introduced trespassed the blue laws of facts and physics. All was relative. All was none.
I was more vividly aware of my surroundings. But I was extent beyond spacial constraints. It seemed as though I existed somewhere between the body and the white tardy sheet. My nails needed a cut. My hair was glued with greasy secretions to my scalp, except for a few repugnant charcoal black hairs from the left side of the head. My eyes were bulging out. No more compliments were to be offered to the them anymore. The nose was already big. However, a bluish red bruise was dominant over the right nasal bone. My lips were chipped and puffed to the outside. Not much air was there to cushion the size. The biggest slit was at the center almost perfectly symmetrically separating the two halves of the lower lip. The beard was a mess. The rib cage was.. opened?
The heart was still beating on the silver tray on the counter to the medium far right. I gasped! Or maybe it was the moment blowing the wind through the labored melancholic milestone. To the far right, way way to the right, there was a whistle. For a first impression, it can be easily mistaken for a Chinese lullaby playing in collaboration with the "coronary base". That which pulls back cries of the child, memories of the gone. The humming was as soothing, too. It was a she. Dressed in childish white along with occasionally crimson stains. A dress so simple with its straps covering to just above her knees. The hair was fully blond. Slightly curled at the tips. Naturally blond. The gal was in contact with the floor. The sole and the five perky toes where all connected to the stance and the white blocks of the ground. Even the dusts were charmed to her feet while she insisted on dancing over their presence. The face could not be identified anymore. The arms? Maybe. The golden wisps? The neck? The slightly showing jawline? The innocent light movements? Yes!
She was a state of existence. That smile! That nose. But what's happening? I swear I could hear her laugh. Her childish frolic was evident with the utensils beating against each other. Intentionally slammed into each other by those hands. Her hands!
But why?
My death was but a phase to her thoughts. The heart was a sacrifice to the upper good, to the bigger group. That moment, love was stripped to its instinctual lust. The pretty little pink was not so pink, not so little, not so pretty.

Average: An Ode to My Dad

He didn't even say anything. He just pushed the bathroom door half closed and flushed the yellow flabby skin of his face with palm-sized doses of fresh water from under the faucet. We were too fast to pay attention. The fries were almost done and the hamburger meat was slumping against the side of my plate. Too much were the mundane chitchats rushing through the last chunk of the night. Meanwhile, Dad's hands kept on applying the cold to his rough jaw up to his wrinkled hilly forehead. Then, he went out. Not a word and walked down the corridor through the spaces we managed to separate ourselves with. He reeled to the living room and to the balcony ahead were he settled on the yellow plastic seat. Dad was in search for the load of air he felt his chest seemed to have lost. His mouth was overflowing with the ants nibbling on his lips and the space a bit afar. It wasn't until he yelled for some alcohol to whiff that we fell back to his circle. We rushed to the emergency room tonight, and all was fine.
It all happened too fast. Now as I am pressing against the tabs of the keyboard, I recap the thoughts that have flooded my mindset ever since we returned home from the overwhelming smell of disease and trivially formal medical bureaucracy.The first thing that whipped my thoughts was the constant times we blamed Dad for us being plain average. Just average.
It is quite true. Every time we read about a five-year old prodigy taming the black and white slaves of his piano, an acrobat that has been practicing since she was 3 or a genius that mastered 5 different languages by the age of 12, I blamed Dad. He never enrolled his kids in any space where they can unleash the powers within. I think I would have been easily capable of juggling several languages, paint and generate music from the heart of the most obedient instruments. Really, I would've. And more. So, I kept blaming him. And every time I did, it felt right. It was his choice for us.
I was never as sure to have stood up to what was obvious to me; I could have been better. Elite! The idea was so pervasive in my conscious until a few hours ago where it all became clear. Maybe it was my adrenaline outburst forcing me to think. Maybe.
Growing up, my Dad was the youngest of 7. His mother was as ignorant as his father was financially constrained; his work shifted often between a doorman at certain points and a shoemaker at others. He discovered that his mother was not capable of reading when she held the book upside down while pretending to test his recitation at an early age. By mistake. He never cared, or so he managed to pretend, that his teacher hit him because he was "unrealistically descriptive" of his residence; his teacher pulled his dreams back to class: " Do not lie! Your house is a grave."
His dad was not home by each night. Or day. Or days. He lost his mom by the age of 14 and went from Mashghara to Zahle' in West Bekaa of Lebanon to continue pursue his studies. He then moved to Beirut where life was no less easier. He worked endlessly to pull himself from his past. All he wanted to be was like everyone else. All he wanted to be was average. He wanted the house he once falsely described, the bike he never had and the family he always dreamed of endorsing.
On every occasion, he flips the page back to the sugar sandwich his mom treated him with and the bike she promised to get him. And he cries.
Just as it passed across my mind, the idea of me losing him was painfully liberating. These words can not be any more sincere. So, thank you Dad. Thank you for being average and sharing your success with me. Average is where I will always want to be.

Late Night Lavender

They were mushing the soles of their overpriced black souls of their shoes against the car mat. Tim was somehow managing the wheel from between the sweaty palms of his weak hands. Darren was fixing his hair front against the cold lush loads of wind. Both were perfectly aware of the cold crisp vapors trespassing their sleeves and their mouths. It was somehow crushed between their molars and swayed with one more dose of their worried warm breath. They were also perfectly conscious about the dark jelly roads the car was slicing through. With every twist and ominous turn, the wheels shafted along the crumbly sands and stones. All left behind the track was a darker expectation of a prom date yet to be found.
It was all they could think about while driving down the road. The far shimmering lights were louder and more honestly expressed with such devious coordination with the dusty gas pedal. Both knew they should've ditched the event, or at least tried their luck with Lisa McCrooger. The girl was in the bag. No competition whatsoever. But it was too late now. Tim's nervous driving was rendering the Black Jeep more unstable.
Just when the laughing buzz from within the ball room became more vividly recognizable, Darren flashed his hairs and kicked back against the seat. His head held the breath. There was not a chance for this night to be passed more acceptably.
 The radio voice was suddenly spotted to be calmly murmuring over fair intervals interrupted by the tuning hush. Both eyes were staggering at the thing. They could swear neither touched the board. However, neither of the two uttered a comment of any sort; it was too useless of a subject. Besides, such a bad night can't be exacerbated with evident hallucinations at its adolescence. It just can't. Thoughts weren't given much time to frolic in their confused compact skulls. Just as they raised their heads, they spotted a graceful young stroke aside the streets ahead. It was a new one. Her long straight black hair was flushing against the breeze. She threw her purplish simple dress on her and mounted a pair of matching heels. Not that she needed any; she was gracefully tall. She shook her small rectangular black purse along her right side, too. All too perfect. As they drove ahead, her face became more observable. Those big dark eyes. That small nose and cherry mouth. The high cheek bones. The pale skin. Tim slowed down just ahead of her where Darren initiated the chat. Luckily, she was not as haughty as anticipated and smiled back. Odd. But then it was more advantageous, and the chances of interacting were seemingly multiplying.
 "Can I know your name?" asked Darren. She smiled more conservatively as her eyes got darker and bigger, beautifully bigger. "Lavender. It's Lavender." she replied. The wheel was slightly rolling as the conversation stretched a bit longer. "Please tell me your going to the prom", he humorously added. " I am", she conveyed after a couple of silent steps. "Well, can we give you a ride?", Darren popped as Tim held the vehicle in place. And without a linguistic response, she held to the back door opened and got in. That was weird. How confident of her. But it wasn't of such significance. They now had a date-ish. There was still one girl for the two. But, hey, those who share underwears can manage to share a date. They were already wearing matching black and white tuxs. Tim's tie was bluish while Darren's was green. But still. No biggy.
It was a silent ride from then.
Once the car met the last turn, lights from within the hall were already flashing on the windshields. The guys suddenly fell dependent on the music to break the ice. And it actually went well. Dancing was weird. The punch was fresh. The talks peeled along the night from the rusty formalities to sharing childhood stories. It was so lovely. So unexpected.
The night peeked a bit after midnight. More punch. More dance. More laughs. More Lavender.
Then, loud music was tamed to classics as laughs turned into sighs.
At around 2 am, the bristling winds squeaked past the necks of the three as they punctured the hall's door opened to call the night over. They got up in the car, as seated before. The engine gurgled to start.
Darren wanted to drive, though. But he was disappointed; he wasn't sober.
Along the ride, the street lights were striking the inside rhythmically, and that was all the fuss. Silence was overwhelming again. All fake coughs to ignite a chit-chat were destined to fail. Then, Darren retained his chutzpah and asked, "So, where do you live? You know, so we could drop you off." However, her firm looks were interrupted by the radio turning on again, same volume, same voice, for no reason. Lavender loudly gasped and asked Tim to drop her off. "But it's nowhere!", Tim declared as he slowed the Jeep down. Lavender was not ready to discuss and opened the back door. She just jumped out to the asphalt and halted. Just like that. No goodnight wishes. No sweet dreams.
 Tim stepped back against the gas pedal conventionally, still unable to fully grasp what just happened. Five yards later, he spotted from his drivers middle mirror the black purse in the back seat. He stopped the car and threw his top from the window. He called with a full foggy breath to Lavender: "You forgot your.." But no one was there. Not a shade. Not a sound other than the bristling leaves of nearby apple trees. The night was already blurry with the morning mist forming. Tim was freaking out with his fast breaths drowning the question marks. The shivering broken vocals turned towards Darren who was busy reeling in his seat. All tension was put into the gas pedal one more time. The place was not logical anymore. Nothing made sense anymore.

Dorothy, Demons and the Doll (1)

-The wind was getting darker and thicker. It wasn't cold, but something was. The wood was more of less stability riding along the untamed latitudes. The yellow plastic bag was intentionally slapped to the inside and deviously bristling more conservatively. The last of the fish was still flapping in the bag, pounding its sides against the wood. Something about the boat, the cracks, my beard or maybe the shore was precarious. It was abruptly disappearing for a blink and shifting into something else. My age could not be identified. I couldn't tell. I wasn't me anymore.

-What do you mean, John? Use your words.
-Well, that was myself, but the body was someone else's. It was like I was not in control of my own actions anymore. And then there was this light flashing through the fog. And at every round it hit me, I felt like I was the one drowning and not her.
(The pen stopped heating against the note pad for a second, and he looked at me from above his square thick glasses. He tapped the tip of his pen against the last phrase, anticipating some answers, and feeding the paper with the promise of more. However the silence was too long. Too obscure.)
- Who was "she"?
- She didn't have face. Despite my puzzling thoughts to paint her eyes, nose and a sort of a mouth, she was blank.
-And her body?
-Pale and weak. She was the body, and through her weight she had to speak. I think I threw her body into the sea.
-You killed her?
- I think.
- Well did you or did you not?
-I'm not sure. I might have. However, it was so exotic. When her corp collapsed into the waters, I was the one drowning. My throat gurgled with the salt. I put my hands so tightly around my neck that nothing was to flush air in. When I realized that my life was to whiff away, I threw myself onto the tip of the deck where my hands fell short from her. I was...
 (I shrugged and pulled myself from an eccentric angle where I sought a portal to my memory and shrunk my fingers closer to my palm)
-... in pain.
(shifted my sight to Dr. Emile)
 and she was done with the air, content with life. (My mouth, after being slightly opened, broke more realistically closed and ready for explanation. Yet, the doctor's pen was still lost over the white, flashing interpretations to his notepad. Seconds and he quit to gaze again at me, stern as he could be. But the smirk soon flipped into a sympathetic smile).
-Was that woman Dorothy?
The corners of my mouth drowned even more into the fact and my eyes lost again sideways. My forehead retained its marks. Nothing was to pull me back to his question, but his low hoarse murmur rose along the words and lipped the time for our weekly session over.

I freed my left foot from under the right and slid both from afar to stiffen them closer to stand. I stood up where my brown cotton pants fell back to cover the beige socks. I smiled like I have been doing for the past 6 weeks and left. Tapping the steps down to the NewYorkan busy street. From the recent beating nightmare and Emile's interpretations into the rushing crowd. 

It wasn't the first time I scribble my sheets with nightly concerns. The newly vast matrix was already growing by the night tightly more compelling. All viscous feels shuffled at the hedge of every morning brake. Right before our bed, the reddish wood squeaks open from the center against the rusty gold-painted joints to the clothes I left hanging solemnly. Even the transparent plastic cloak over the silent white wedding dress to the far left still clung to the dust particles over it. Her nanny's heavy perfume still larked through it. Beneath it is only one heel left of that night. The other was lost when we first moved to the house. On the shelf above, at the top, to the deep center, slightly to the shy right, painted the prone space of her wedding gift. A small box settling over 4 cornered nails and a scraped wooden shade silent shut over the pretty little dolly inside. It hushed the childish pink memories and the perky music. I peered closer to it, reaching out for its tips, to succumb to the musics loudly weeping as the doll painted a new face. It went on to sing the dark red screams of Dorothy's past. All got too loud and painfully vivid along with another lump of attacks of the flashback fall. It spoke and screamed louder and faster with her voice to where I threw the box to the end of the shelf. I fled from the squeaks and the reddish brown memories. I ran to the busy streets where the people's fast lives were too systematically blind to the fault in my scars.     

It's Time for Pizza

          I laughed and laughed some more before her eyes. I only smiled because I knew that that would make her compliment mine. But I was bitterly aware she was already in too much pain. Then, in a fleeting glance, she disappeared again.

          Everything I do now pulls me back to her childish acts, and he can tell, too.

          We were having sex and all was an infinite orgasm. Her shivering body. We were eating the lobster I promised her to cook, or so was the plan until she snuck out to pull it out of the blue bowl during my daily siesta. We were fighting over which shirt should I wear to the opening of our new restaurant, our next step, our new dream. I was shouting at her to stop bugging me about smiling the last time to that cute accountant. We were camping. But she wasn't there.

          Well, I asked Sherley to put on the dark brown curly wig during our "quicky"; it roughly looked like her hair. She had to listen to me as though she cared, too. Not that I needed to pay extra, but that was the only time I had the chance to love her again. Sherley was nice. She was considerate. Sometimes, I just needed to masturbate on her smile. Other times, things were too complicated to even try. Her presence beside me was beautiful though, and I payed her the usual.

          My one night relationships increased frantically after she passed away. They were random women attracted to the bold funny single dad. The kitchen apron was too sexy I guess. And the more nights I spent with them, the more I realized how alone I was. All that I did was somehow bland and strained from all pleasure. Even the meals I made my child grew saltier, inedible. 

         I knew that I had to accept it fast before I fall in place. I had to try to make peace with all the flashbacks. I had to accept her death.

         She refused to go to a hospital. Chemotherapy was as useless as the hope I constantly tried to cushion her with. I screamed and slammed doors numerous times. I cried my fingers into her weak hairs almost every night. I noticed her smile break down from the corners. She started hiding from the 9 year old because she somehow wanted him to remember her as the laughing voice of his lullabies before bed. She was the voice of God speaking into his dreams. The most painful was the fact that we all knew things were only yet to exacerbate.

          Days collapsed ahead as her pain grew more intense, more perpetual, more in control. She could barely move anymore. It hurt to talk. Her eyes became more tired and her lips more dry. Her skin lost the heat and essence. Her movements became frighteningly stiff. I remember that only then when she agreed to go back on treatment.
          She asked for her body to be incinerated. Her vital organs to be donated. She cruelly gave up herself.
Now, whenever my son asks me for his lunch, we order pizza.

Within and Without

          ...and once again, but for the first time and sincerest of all, did I gently stand at the tip of the humid cold railing, clutching to it and peering at the viewpoint ahead.
          I was already gone. I was already a part of an inevitable future, a redundant format.
          All I could remember was the fleshy warm trembling lips of her mouth, speaking only into myself. Those big shimmering sweet eyes and soft tender skin, that of which falls between milky white and wheat.
          I didn't want to though. I was a man with little words and much dreams. I had a different world of mine, one of which never seemed to ever intertwine with hers, never to poke hers sideways along. I knew I had myself already lost in place. I held my breath and pressed my mouth silent, swaying occasionally sideways for stagnant salute. I knew I couldn't speak, talk or stay still.
          It was all about none. I fixed my hair when it fell across the tip of my steady black eyeglasses and returned my hands to where they belonged back in front of me, on the white sheets of the round proud table, separated by the porcelain empty plate. I dragged my fingers along the forming marks of the sheet and up along the neck of the glass aside. Nobody was to know of the table throwing, chair breaking riots within me. I sit straight.
          Halfway through the night, halfway through the well-planned laughter and the dusty hand shakes, halfway through the false dreams and the bright chandelier lights, it all came to an end. I forced an acceptable cough and smiled my way out. I pushed my wooden seat backwards and retreated from all wordy ornaments and tardy cloaks. I just stepped away from all the over-shrunk meals and ostentatious cigar puffing. Most importantly, I stepped away from all her images in my head. I tried to.
          My pace grew out of rhythm and frighteningly loud. I wanted to run away from all the memories, from all the dead expectations, from her.
          I knew so well that my mind shall be imprisoned by her, by her heart, by her smile, her dimple, her eyes, her hair, her everything. I knew that if I kiss her, I will never live a free man again. My heart will no longer romp. My eyes will never see. As I stepped closer to her, my pain grew larger as my pulse ran closer to her. I pouted my face more determined, more in control. I clutched my fists even harder and closer to myself. I fiercely gazed into her tender looks, into her eyes, trying to break whatever charm she had on me. However, little I knew that she only grew more afraid, more in love. I let go of my fingers opened and raised my palm up to her chin, to her cheeks and down to her neck. She trembled weaker than before as I approached her lips and silenced her scared load of noisy whiff of air. And I kissed her some more. 

          Her lips. Her back. Her wrist. Her golden wisps. Her everything.
          I began to run away from the overwhelming images. All the other protocols were flamboyant.
          I broke away from the bland chats and glamorous designs. I rushed down the circular stairs with my right hand sliding just above the railing where her hand might have touched. I rushed away fast towards the wide opened front terrace. I managed the final couple of steps to the cold load of dark breeze outside. Across the portraying images of her, I lifted my sight where she seemed to be. There she was. Dressed in caramel white. Next to him and the little girl.
          Right then, I knew I was within and without the life she had stolen from me.
          And she turned my way.

Goodbye

And I sought to love with more than love  

Always silent to your plea

I guess I was blind that I couldn't see

That my heart has churned the last of woe

And flushed another dose of the ample flow

Of what you, your absence, drips off

 from upon your sleeve 

The last of words, the lost of mine

It's not my fault I can never speak

I've reached out for mortals and daemons beneath   

Quenched with fire and fed with need 

I just I never knew

I just I never blew

 the bleak truth into my flute

And played away the notes of this epiphany 

Much words are fathomed unspoken

Much of which you can never hear

As much of the promise I made

I can never reach

Much of yours, you I can never teach

I know now more than time could ever dare to preach

More than you can love and live off reach 

 right there behind the sun, across the sea

I know your boat has been set afar

Reeling on the waves of his chest 

Sinking into his heart 

Flushing against his world of rite, wrong and flee 

I know I love those who cannot belong to my dreams

All those times I couldn't see

I couldn't. I didn't want you away as free

But the love I loved was more than love

So as such things will never seize

To reside along a forbidden deem

Nay on wish. On destiny

I ought to let you go

You solemnly stray away from me

Goodbye my love, my friend, my me

Goodbye. I'll let you go.

Goodbye. 

Just don't leave.

Notes of the Once

I shall not say it. Never will. Maybe. I don't know. Can I dare take the risk?

Such divine promise is never to be contaminated. Never underestimated. Those words belong to another world. They belong to a dusty book. That of which was buried along with childhood memories. Whispered secretly, confidently yet cautiously for nobody out there is to know of them. The trinity of humanity can never be breathed out. Never to be spelled, spilled and spoiled.

Those words are not ours to share. The purity of such devotion exceeds our interpretation of human intimacy. The world is contaminated enough. The air just ahead of my lips is to never be trusted. The words I doubt to preach can be blown to another ears. I shall always bury them within. Deep within. Somewhere, deep inside the dark. To such depth that a light dwells from the darkest of dark. A sanctuary where no one except for us can cross legs and speak. Somewhere elusive from the air.

You want me to say them?
Just don't. Everything you need to know you already do. I told you everything. I just never actually spoke it to you. But does it really matter? Does it?