For Tom

To that white guy who is terrible at texting and never stops making fun of the way I say the word

“three”.

Part 1.

I wonder if it's okay, if I allowed myself to cherish and hold on to moments like these: to sink into the warm waters of your lustful attention, to be surrounded with lit candles of your sweet scented affection; if it's fine, if I immersed myself in the guilty pleasure of your sensational touch, and the taste of cigarettes in your soft kisses; if it's granted, if I stayed in the burning fires of your intense passion for intimacy and messy sheets. Or, the need for morning coffee and the laughter shared watching comedy films.

If love was a lush green meadow blooming with delicate flowers, I figured that I'd be the gardener, barefooted, wearing a dirt-stained white lace dress, and every man I come across would be my empty field, my land of opportunities. I'd reap and sow seeds within their soils, have pieces of me root, or maybe rot itself deep, watch as it grows or perhaps, wilt under their honest weathers. Often faced with stormy weathers and dying lights, wastelands and muddy swamps, my heart merely finds stable ground, hardly with faith, planted itself, rarely, flourish in the hands of any man.

I've grown a comfortable habit of bleaching my intoxicating paranoia with pessimistic expectations and constant reminders of how my attempts hardly bore any chances of happy endings. No longer fighting against daunting waves of doubts, uncertainty, and disappointments, I've given it permission to cleanse myself of emotional dependency and the vast emptiness of my soul. I accept the infestation of parasites harbored from my past, letting their presence eat away my essences of hope and vulnerability.

Yet

My heart lingered upon you. My seeds, laid safe beneath your silky soils, under your warm sunlight and clear blue skies. You've rid weeds and drizzled me gentle raindrops, nurtured my plans and silly ideals, nested a part of me to rest in content.

You bloomed me flowers.

Part 2.

I've stopped wondering,

For you, have slowly grown me an entire forest.

If you've noticed, I've had this tendency to lose my nerves over the littlest things. I've never liked waiting -- my patience is a constant short fuse which rather leave the rooms dark than waste another moment burning myself out for another. In every minute, every second, I'd make sure that I've dug deep and scrape clean off all of its worth, I'd selfishly seek only the finest treasures. As I've had it, sharing with those who simply do not appreciate my efforts. In control, I’ve always paced myself destructively fast.

I am terrified that this would wither us both, that perhaps I might be too rough on your soils or too heavy for your branches. These leaves, are falling.

However.

For you, suddenly, time have never seemed so irrelevant.

These hours, could merely feel like minutes as I'm held against your arms. These minutes, could fairly feel like seconds as I'm pressed against your lips. These seconds, could simply feel so slow, as with that smile of yours, you looked at me --

For I, a ruthless mess, somehow in any sense -- deserved this.

Scattered, this poem might have become.

I’ve been taking myself to where it all started. Back and forth, I go, to piece together something that is either ever-evolving or gracefully dying. You see, I wish I knew the right words because it never sounds sufficient.

The kind of words that would ring loud enough for you to understand that this silent heart still beats and gravitates towards you.

I would trade you this body.

Because I've forgotten how unstable and stubborn it can get when it fails to be with you. Because I've forgotten where it stayed after it decided you were its’ home. Because I've forgotten what it wanted to do as now parts of its dreams involves you. Because, for this time, it knows no better but to love you. It does not know how to quit, even when you want me to.

Call me insane, but I've stopped rushing myself towards the days that I've imagined to be better. Rather, I am determined to preserve the very little life of our future.

(OkAy I SoUnD a LiTtLe TOo MuCh)

Now I think about who else will wonder, if it is okay to let themselves do anything with you -

It is not fine nor granted, as I will not allow it. She won't care about watching these films and watching you watching these films slowly drift away. She will not care about desserts or coffee and stuffing their faces with you. She doesn’t care about the little details and the words. They won't know how to give you the universe and strive ways to make you feel special.

I will not surrender this piece to a sad end, even though undoubtedly, it sounds like one. This body. It will never learn. Arrogant and difficult, it always has been. Eventually, the clock will stop ticking, and this might turn into a fading memory lane.

It will resolve to unwillingly but lovingly, letting you go.

Even so, I have decided to grow more time, and bring the rain for my own. I have chose to stay a little longer and I will not let these blooming flowers die.

- So come back.