The man didn’t buy flowers,
But he drove on the boulevard at night, under the starry sky,  told her to  smell the camille near the sidewalk.

They rarely went out for dinner.
But he sat in front of her everytime at the restaurant,
Gazing, laughing ,  looking at his girl finishing the final piece left on the plastic plate
“eat,  I’m here just for you”

He didn’t care if he made her mad.
He’d go deaf when she tells him:
I think I just can’t come today.

He wasn’t impressed at her dress- any types of clothes she put on herself 
But he held her face to the sky, as he filled her mind with thoughts.
He pulled her heart from the old dusty box,  as he touched it gently in a way she couldn’t tell.

The man didn’t write.
No letter
No email
No poem
Not even a note under the magnet on the fridge.
But he kissed her good night everytime they said good bye.
The rain was hard; the stars didn’t shine; the moon,  dimmed.
But he hold her right through the darkness,  their body intertwined.
He kept wanting to see her
Whatever has been ordinary for her,  was extraordinary with him.

The man didn’t like sweet things, 
But he fed her chocolate, homemade food  and an unnamed love.

He didn’t plan for the right things.
It was wrong…


Frozen time.

The cactus’s flowers are now dead,  the red cactus flowers that rose proudly on the river bank are dried up under the sun,  turning grey,  forgotten.
But the scar…
The scar from the cactus’s thorn is still there, lying irritatingly on the left side of the middle finger.

The undone sketch is now lying silently under the table,  covered in dust,  the charcoal line is now fading,  nothing left but a blurry line that used to be the back of the sword.
But the idea…
The sketch’s idea is still stuck somewhere in million grains of sand inside the neck of an hourglass.

The tuna mayo sandwich is now finished,  never be made again,  the spicy flavor at the tip of the tongue is disappeared,  the burning skin is replaced,  all new, feels like nothing has ever happened.
But the taste…
The taste is there, the taste,  still new. brings you back to the kitchen with the black floor,  puts you on the kitchen table next to the sink,  halts the time.
You,  sitting there,  waving your hand on the air,  catching all the memories fracture that  are falling down on the cold floor.
You realise, 
Things change
Time flies
People left
Memories stay
And you
Stuck there in between,  being left alone, with them,  and a crack.

What is love?

I don’t know your real name,  you don’t know mine
And there’s a secret love life,  stays behind
The end of Spring,  Sunday,  rained
I remember that first look,  it remains…

There is,  though,  no love likes other. Some are loud, like an ocean wave slapping on the shore; some are silent,  like a breeze touching your dried lips in the fall.
Some loves are meant for the whole world to know,  some are just beautiful staying as a hidden treasure of a lifetime.
Some are burnt with the original theory of love,  some are calm,  having no rules at all about how you can love and be loved.
Some are rushed,  suffocated by the pride of youth,  the possession of a new path not yet conquered. Some are slow, like carving on stone,  suffered by the pain of cutting your own hand making art on hard materials,  the vague fear of loosing a vivid thing you never have.

Love, makes your heart melted,  like the melting green candle on the speaker of his TV
Love, makes your heart pounded ,  like that  feeling you have while being inside her,  discover a new world on a narrow boulevard.
Loves,  warms you up from the inside,  like how he let you sleep in his bed while preparing dinner for you
Loves,  makes your heart eased,  like how you can laugh from the end of your lung when she’s around.
Love,  is spending time for each other after a long tiring day at work
Love,  is together making dinner with her in your t-shirt
Love,  is gently hitting him with love whenever he teases you while shopping together
Love,  is  walking under the night sky,  seeing new places together
Love,  is kissing him goodnight whenever you leave.
Love,  is giving her your coat while it rains outside and taste her lips before she goes…
You Love.
Love,  breaks you in pieces, like that China bowl holding the tiny candle in his bathroom you dropped on the wet floor
Love, burns you from the outside , like that egg white omelette you burnt cooking for her
Love, showers you with complex emotions,  embeds on your soul with invisible mark, destroys you from the inside, left you with vulnerability and a shrunken heart.
And you still love.

I don’t know your real name,  you don’t know mine
And there’s my secret love life,  stays  inside…

Sunday morning

I dream of a Sunday morning in bed with you, to feel the love that burned with desires but as comforting and warm as the silk scarf touching my bare skin.

The kind of morning that wakes me up from the inside, makes me feel like i’m still diving in my own dream, there is no vivid border between reality and the fantasy world inside my head- they’re collided.

I want to be woken up with the fragile sunlight through the thick curtains that dancing with the sound of the busy street outside; the light that streams down on your hair, brightens your eyes in the darkness of an early morning not yet broken, and I see my reflection there, with a gaze full of love,


I find your lips on mine, soft, wet, desirable, like a hymn i would always love to sing to, and sin to. Your hands pull me closer, chest to chest, skin on skin, your arm around my waist. Love is ectasy.

Our clothes lied on the couch, crumbled, full of the city smell from the adventure’s last night, and i see us walking together on the pavement, the midnight’s breeze caressed my cheek, hand in hand,  watching all the bikes passing by, realizing how lucky we were finding each other out of  8 billions people out there. I can still feel your finger tips on my shoulders, undressing me. Not only my clothes, but also my soul. First my skepticism and sarcasm fell from my hand like a china cup hitting the cold floor, broken in pieces. Then my armour made from insecurities and fears fell down under my feet while you held my hand, letting me know love is real.

I no longer need to wear those masks of the roles i have to play, no longer need to cling to any of the sad old memories hidden in the mask’s layers. Just when i believed i could not be any more naked for you, you would pull me against your chest, take that dress over my head, unbutton my bra, exposing my breasts, giving it the most pleasure touch from the warmth of your palm and the tip of your tongue.  I’m here, fully naked, vulnerable in front of you, once again, i see myself in love.

The moon was dimmed, the room was dark. Under the balcony, people kept honking. In the bed, there was us, sighing, a sound of lifting up something so heavy out of our chest. All the  nightmares, all the long travels, all the sleepless nights and the scars that I thought could never be healed, all go away, left me, more naked with the new air come from the back of my throat, all the words that have stayed there for a while, waiting to be said, now running around in my head, breaking all the rules. I was speechless, overwhelmed by the flame inside me, the desire, the passion, the lust, the love, an harmonious melody that burns the last cover of me. I was there, with a ruined ego, trying to blow all the dust away.

And a Saturday night turns into a Sunday morning,

A sunday morning without the holy water, the hymn, all the women in veils walking in the beauty of the artificial faith. A sunday morning without fear, armours, insecurities, and everyday worries. Just me, in your arms, pressing my body against you, no words are needed, because you already know what i want.

I put my lips on yours, running my hands on your back, lying on you, finding a destination on the familiar map to start a new journey together, saying good morning to you, not just to wake up your body but also the sleepy vulnerable soul inside your head that was scattered by your poetic muse.

I’m not dreaming of being a muse, my free spirit wants to live you up, brings out the best out in you, sees you have an orgasm by your own happiness, caresses your body as well as your heart. I’m not asking to be your muse, I just ask you to let me once, see the inside of your hard shell, to let me have the chance to heal those pains you hide inside. I’m not asking anything from you, i want your love, i crave for your touch, but i won’t ask for it. I want you bring them all to me, one day, if you feel want it, if you trust me, if you know not everyone will leave you be cold once you being naked out of your shell. I want you to remember me, not as a joint to your memories, but as the sunlight in a rainy day, as a breeze in a hot night, as the moon for your darkness. I don’t want to be the flame, the sun, or the wind. They can destroy you, and i never want to. I want you to be whole again, even with cracks, but at least, not tiny pieces on the floor.

Your room will be full of hair, tangled, messy, hair of me. I want you to know that my mind is also tangled thinking of you, my heart is rushing gluing itself to be there for you, wholeness. I am not perfect, i have never been and i don’t want to. However, I want you to know that i try my best, not because i want you to accept me as that is not something i can control, but i want to love you with all of my heart, no matter how imperfect and ugly it is because of all the scars.

And i want to wake up, next to you, every Sunday morning…