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He uses sorry like band aid on the wounds not even considering the fact that the wound is so deep even stitches might not be able to stop the bleed.

He did try, but for whom?

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Him

I don't think about him much,

But the smell of the childhood oil on his hair that I remember from my grandfather,

The slight taste of betel nut on his lips that made me think of my grandmother,

His soft yet firm hands reminded me of my mother,

The mischeavously innocent smile of his that had the comfort I can't explain.

Everything was so common about him,

His clothes, the way he talked.

He's not the type to be remembered,

His habits too common that I was accustomed to.

Too common to be thought of so often.

Yet, his world was so different than mine.

His relationship with God,

His moments,

His love,

His words.

Then why, can't I forget him?

Why is it not only do I remember him

But sometimes, crave for his familiarity,

His lame jokes, his humble acceptance when I take my jokes too far.

Always being there but not enforcing it as a need but always as a want.

Why?

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Jenny Xie, from "Zuihitsu",  Eye Level

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I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.

Daphne Du Maurier, from Rebecca

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I don't understand love anymore.

I don't believe in God, I don't believe in powers, I don't believe that feelings can be trusted for more than a fleeting moment.

Yet. Yet, when I feel his warm breath on my neck it reminds me of the little bit of sunshining right after it has rained, the easiness and the slumber it follows it is almost impeccable.

Yet, when he starts singing he reminds me of the old radio in my grandfather's study that taught me to hum the first few songs I ever loved.

Yet, when he holds my hands I remember the time my aunt made me pray and I believed in God.

Yet, when he smiles it reminds me of the first time I felt something for that boy in my class but didn't understand the feelings. Just happy and ticklish and wanted to feel it again.

Yet, when he cooks I just want to play with the utensils like i did when I was a child.

I don't believe in love, yet....

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I swore I wasn't anything like my mother.

But we've both spent nights crying over being

Neglected by men we have our hearts to.

I swear i was nothing like her,

Until I too started begging to be held just for a minute after long hours of work.

I swore I'm different,

Until I too wore a mask to cover the heartbreak with a smile everyone expected.

I swear I'm nothing like her.

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Sometimes i feel like one of van Gogh's painting. So beautiful yet the story behind it is so, so tragic. i was painted out of love and hate, happiness and sadness, hope and confusion and yet i stand here, just there to keep people guessing what was going on in the artists mind while painting me.

I also realise that when Van Gogh was alive, his paintings were never really worth anything, he barely sold one and was usually in pain and poor, just to be a world known artist so long after that every tongue has spelt his name atleast once in their life. When i forget my worth i remind myself of that. That I'm beautiful even if most don't see it, that I'm perfectly imperfect cause each stroke by itself doesn't make sense but it makes me me in the end.

I hope i can remember it when i feel horrible and if you relate i hope you know we're just two paintings looking at eachother trying to understand what the other is worth and also find ours.

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The nights where you're scared you can't love anyone but yourself.

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Please teach me love, i don't understand it anymore. It feels like the second language 8 learned in middle school and forgot all about as soon as I passed the class and reached highschool. I can tell you few words here and there, glimpses from my past, the memories but nothing more. Please teach me how to love again, the way i can understand it and live through it forever.

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paper thin love

paper white love

pure in its undurability

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I'm made to be loved, not beg for it.

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Give me some hope to live by, i have none anymore.

Give me some love to fall for, i can barely feel.

Give me some happy smiles that don't break my hear, it's impossible to heal.

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*

mortifying ordeal, etc. 🕊

(claire schwartz / coco mellors)

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Ilyas Abu Shabaka, tr. by Adnan Haydar and Michael Beard, from Modern Arabic Poetry: an anthology; “You or I?”

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graves grow no green that you can use.

gwendolyn brooks