What’s left

We waited for so long that the planet died, and we were still waiting for the right words to come.

Inspired by the WordPress prompt Waiting


A storm to never pass

A storm is supposed to pass, but these days, a storm is something more.

A storm is a cloud rolling and rolling and hurling repetitions of itself, out of itself,

without ever stopping, without ever spinning the centre of the wave

because it itself is the eye, all-seeing but unseeable.


A storm is supposed to pass, but these days, it’s just a touch

Not even heard in echoes but in the mind that is somehow more profound

a footprint than a million unnamed feet, a million hearts you do not know

because a storm you can define but can never really settle.


This storm is supposed to pass, but these days, it breaks

off into leaking hourglass and spitting sand specks that are impossible to catch

and impossible to avoid, and dying to escape the burial of a windless grave,

because the storm is wind and we’re all trying to escape the life it gives.





All that you see

You stand in a sea of people who do not know anything beyond the prices of their own bodies,
They’ve sold their souls to commercials telling them it’s worth more to sell than to give.
Life is meaningless so they hold onto what little they can:
The material things that’ll rust away with age but they don’t seem to care because anything you buy can be replaced, right?

Do as the Romans do, they say but I can’t seem see as they see the world
Because I see the wrinkled eyes of a man sweeping away the fallen leaves of winter,
I see the tired smile of a woman climbing up a flight of stairs after long days of the same work on replay,
I see repetitions of the same lives continuing on while the previous ends like a track that’s stuck on a song no one likes but everyone must listen to,
I see a pain in success and in the touch of paper bills

But then I realise that maybe I’m overthinking all this
And everyone’s the happy one
And I’m the only one in pain.

Mosaic of musings

I’m good at putting you aside. I’m not good at forgetting you.

I’m staring out the window, but really I’m staring into my thoughts.

I’d like to pick a lock and go where I shouldn’t go. Because sometimes going where you shouldn’t go leads you to where you’ve always wanted to go.

When you jump, you’ll fall. But I’d rather be falling than be standing still till the end of time.

I’m silent, but my heart is loud.

You’re like the night: littered with stars, drowning in ghosts.


Granite thoughts

The thought of you is maddening.
Whispers in my head become carvings on
a granite stone,
stamping in the every time you spoke to me
and every time you touched your brow to crinkles
and every time you smiled with the ocean in your eyes.

The thought of you exhilarates.
The pedal’s down, tires roaring down the asphalt
and I know this road will lead me nowhere
but your headlight’s up ahead and that means
there’s still a silver of a chance.

The thought of you is saddening,
the thought is not enough. It feels too much like
soaring to the clouds only to evaporate.
And I’m weary to the bones,
looking anywhere but straight ahead.
The steering wheel
sends me on this blind pursuit
for an everything that will one day grow to

How to reignite a heart

She took a risk expecting nothing in return,
Embraced the dying embers in the swallows of her palms
And planted tiny seeds of warmth in the centre of its ebbing heart.

She wasn’t brave or sharp or any way remarkable,
All she did was listen
A single unsteady pulse playing to the tune of hers
Her hands were worn but her heart was soft,
Like the first drops of rain

Drumming, falling
Never breaking into any less than power
The sound of life tearing through the skies
Raining down the streaks of night and day
Until the embers in her palms
Rose and reignited
And grew to a shadow, to a breath,
To the flicker in his
Beautiful, bold eyes.


I miss the 5am’s
when thoughts were hopes
when thoughts were whizzing through the air
when thoughts translated into perfect words
and the typewriter would set afree a silence
I thought I’d lost within my palm.

Today I wake at 5am
and see a different thing to blurry memories:
I see how the clouds collide
and mist befalls the breaths of early morning;
how dewdrops hang from balcony tops
never knowing how to fall;
how your laptop hums a tune
that’s static, warm, a subtle rise and fall;
how the smile by your lips
even though you’re not awake;
how nothing moves
yet everything is alive.

The way you stay.

Why am I still hung up on the past? Most days I force myself into the present, but sometimes, I find myself slipping away, away into the distance, retracing footsteps, looking back at memories of you with a hunger that aches, a longing unfulfilled, a possibility unrealised. The simplest of things are triggers – listening the song I told you was my favourite, drinking the tea you introduced me to, walking in a breeze that carries with it the sound of tired engines and flickering traffic lights just as we had done once. You are just a ghost now, that’s what people tell me, but that’s the problem, don’t you see? You may not be here anymore, but your presence still haunts me, still catches me when I least expect it to. People come and go, but ghosts stay by your side, following you the way unwanted shadows do.

Don’t you get it? Even when you’re gone, you’re not. I want to move on, but I’m only moving forward still clasping onto these memories of you as though they are my last heartbeats. It’s embarrassing to admit all this… I mean, how could so short a time with you leave such a deep impression?

I read a story once. The girl in that story realised that moving on is not forgetting, it’s being able to remember without feeling any pain. The thing is, I don’t feel pain but I feel something. A tight smile, foggy eyes. Something slight, rarely noticed but always felt. Maybe all this is because I’m “sensitive”, maybe my emotions are fragile like wet clay and any kind of weight imprints an everlasting mark upon them. But maybe it’s because you actually meant a lot, and I never had the courage to tell you that. Somehow I let you go without ever letting you go.

Be the sinking ship that rises from its wreckage

There has always been (and still is) this part of me who is prideful and wants to appear strong no matter what; this part of me who wears a straight face, who will never break down in front of anyone, who avoids tender hugs even though all I wish for deep down is the comfort of a warm pair of arms wrapped around me. To show affection, to show too great of an emotion, to show vulnerability… it’s a sign of weakness, isn’t it?

But no. To be genuinely yourself, to be able to peel off that goddamn mask and let others see the chinks in your armour, to show people that you’re not actually made of solid rock… if anything, that takes a lot of guts and a lot of strength.

Being strong and acting strong are not the same things, and I’ve spent so long acting strong that I’ve forgotten how to be strong for real.

I always thought that maintaining this strong facade meant that I was holding my ground, but maybe all this time, I was really just running away. I tell myself that it’s okay not to be okay, that it’s okay to have these moments of weakness, but I still find it so very tempting to simply deny the darkness. All I want to do is sail across sunlight-speckled waters and bask in the ocean breeze, and this darkness will only drag me down like an anchor. I don’t want to face a darkness that will drown me and uncloak me and reveal me to be flawed human I am.

We want to be brand-new, not peppered with patches and stitches like an old, ragged doll. But we forget that the scars we bear are reminders of what we’ve conquered. These scars remind us that we can mend our broken selves. That even if we do get dragged down by darkness, we can drag ourselves back up. We think that our flaws are what makes us weak, but weakness is what teaches us to be stronger next time.