You are my sweetest downfall;

The warmest rainy days,
The sweetest summer afternoons,
The nights 27 floors above the world,
The after hours in the studio,
The times you wipe my foolish tears away,
The many things we have in common,
The tuesday afternoon naps,
The late night essay writing,
Our first game of chess.

And the night when we stood quietly outside the hotel room in Venice, bathed in yellow hall lights and feet on musky red carpets. And even when there was nobody there, we whispered our goodnights.

I’m not going to let all that go, just so you know.

Fragile.

Sometimes I feel like it’s not me inside me.

Thank You,

Madness.

Why does this feeling overwhelm me so much?

I hate it.

absolutely hate it

Empty Inside.

All at once, the world can overwhelm me
And there’s nothing that you can tell me that can ease my mind.

-Jack Johnson, All at Once.

 

I hate the feeling.
It’s like putting a pencil on a piece of paper, but every time you do, the pencil breaks.
And all you do is patiently sharpen it, over and over again.
And all it does is break, again.
Why?

Why am I so angsty? Schoolwork isn’t that difficult. I’ve done it all before. I can do it all again. If only this stupid sickness will just leave me, and let me carry on with my work, I can get my As. I can get my grades. I can get my scholarship. So I can get my money.

It’s funny how now my dreams are all so vortex-y. It’s all swirls, and colourful masses. And amidst those colours I see familiar faces. I see your face. And I miss you.
But why? I see you almost every day. There’s no reason to miss you, cause you’re with me all the time. 

And sometimes I see you too. I don’t know why. I have this deep dark dislike for you, but I cannot bring myself to hate you. I never wish to see you again, and I haven’t seen you for about 3 years, so why do you reappear in my dreams with SUCH SCARY CLARITY and haunt me? You’re always the stall owner, the construction worker, the person who is responsible for something somewhere in my dream. What’s that supposed to mean? 

But in real life, I’ve forgotten what you look like. 

 

But not to worry, one day I’ll wake up, and this angst will be gone. One day it’ll find its way back into the back of my head, and stay there and let me carry on with my life. 
Until it comes back again.

Ashamed.

Of the previous post. But nevertheless. We say things we mean, but we don’t have to be mean saying them. All we gotta do is take things with a pinch of salt (two tablespoons, in my case) and grow up. Because being insensitive and oversensitive at the same time makes us immature.

It’s not so easy.

Because its difficult for any man to erase 3 years of his life. A life of love, passion(?), hurt, hate, dispute, and everything else that falls into the arms of a relationship. It’s even more difficult for another girl to step into his life. To stand on his doormat, and avoid wiping her feet in the dirt of the Previous. But how the Previous has left too many memory stains in the house of the man for him to clean. All that lipstick on the coffee cups, her makeup on his bathroom sink, her clothes strewn in corners of the cupboard. Even the bed still holds her scent. 

And worse, when the New Girl holds his hand, kisses his lips, and feels his body next to hers, it’s distracting knowing they’re all the places she’s been before. Where I finger you, she has fingered you before. Wherever I kiss you, she has kissed you before. She’s breathed into you and filled you with herself, how could you empty yourself for me completely, and start anew? Like second-hand jeans, previously loved, tailored, altered to fit the Previous, and now, strangely fit me. Handed down. Where you handed down to me? She was reluctant to let you go at first, am I right? I was the distraction, the annoyance, the displeasure, the disruption, the dissonance that spoilt her view with you. Is this a mistake, then? is she better for you than I am, or ever will be?

I hope not, because everything feels perfect with you.
I feel perfect with you.  

Perfect in the most imperfect way, and in a way that makes it more perfect than it ever has to be, and that’s perfectly fine with me. Strange, isn’t it, how my hand fits yours, how we’re almost the same height, and how our lips can meet with such ease. How we love almost the same things, and what we don’t share, we tolerate. How we haven’t argued, and don’t want to argue, and prevent ourselves from arguing. What I am to you, what you are to me. How the world carries on beyond our lips. How I never want to lose you. 

I love you, and I hope that we can make this dream last forever, because to lose you now would be to lose it all. 

 

Good Lord, and I still feel her running through my soul.

Thicker than blood.

I don’t understand why you do this. That condescending face, that puckered-up expression, every time you have something to prove. Because lately it always seems like you have something to prove to people, or me, or yourself. 

But lately, its been even more annoying than usual. I mean, everyone is already used to you throwing tantrums and manipulating people with your tempers, and demands. Because law school is oh-so-difficult, and you think you’re getting fat, and the whole world is being a bitch to you all the time. 

No, it isn’t.

Yes, law school is a very, very difficult place to thrive, but don’t take it all out on other people who “don’t understand”. I’m sorry if I’m too fucking stupid to read all your silent expressions and if I’m unable to tell you if need to be alone or if you need attention. I’m sorry if I’m too fucking slow to understand your intellectual, intelligent jokes and pokes at other people. Other people who are oh-so-beneath you, who don’t deserve what they have. 

Its like you’re so sick of life because when you do something or get something done,  nobody gives you a kiss on the forehead or a pat on the back. And you get so pissed over it because you feel like you deserve it. Well guess what, you deserve all that, because you’ve got a great figure, you’ve got smooth hair, you’re intelligent, you’re in a great school, you’ve got a boyfriend you loves the ground you tread on, you’ve got a family (including me) that loves you so much, you’ve got beautiful features, a great smile, and you’re a nice person when you’re not this angsty. If you’d only stop to count the beautiful things in your life, maybe life will be that much easier. 

And this behaviour will stop. Cause I hate, hate, hate, that you take it out on me so often. It’s not like I have everything working out either. 

And yes, I still love you so, so much.

That way, again.

It’s strange how some things cannot be forgotten that easily. Memories, no matter how one may choose to suppress them, can still return at unstrategic times. The stuff that nightmares  are made of. Sometimes, I wonder is it really her shame, or mine?
Because on nights too cold to fall asleep,
I close my eyes and see her face.
Her steely eyes burnt right through me and burn
I feel her running through my soul.
Her hand in yours, her arm tightly wrapped around
yours. 
Her body in the curve of your body,
(Where I long to be someday.)
Her eyes catch mine, and I see in it,
A moat, a fence, a guardpost, guards and barbed wire,
A lockdown, a barricade, an impenetrable defence,
And a tear. 
 

I feel her running through my soul.
Her voice puts a stop to all sanity that runs
through my soul, and 
it never ceases on the nights I think of you.
 
I feel her running through my soul.
How does she do it? This theatrical feat
She was before me, yes,
She isn’t before me, and yet,
I feel her running through my soul.
For every time I place my hand where her hand was placed
once before,
I feel her running through my soul. 
 

Bedtime brows.

sprinkle time into the sheets on which we lay,

the piquancy of my very soul
salted away for another day of rain,
simmered in the timeless cold.

and the soft, sweet taste of your hands,
(as they keep mine warm, warminyours.)

and I will force my faith to further flight forever –

And the night will hold us in its sky
where the only stars are streetlights
(But who needs light but those in your eyes)
and your two-hour lips will last, and leave
their burn on my bedtime brow and sleeve.