The Next Morning, They Meander Along The Coastal Trail For An Hour Or So. When The Sun Begins To Rise,

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“I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am.” - Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

i think the reason why we we're still with each other is that we're afraid of being alone again. and we know that finding love again would take time

Here's to someone, pt. 2

Forward. You are a once again a shade of blue, but with a little bit of green. This time I came close in hue. Now I know how your depths go, so maybe drowning with you isn’t scary.

Rewind. But I still look away when you try to hold me.

Stop. But I really hope this is the last time. But maybe not.

(eusie.)

A poem written by Beau Taplin entitled, “Vacation”

a.k.a. That’s literally the title, and the poem is in italic by the way

I need to move around a bit. To shuffle my surroundings.

The day it all sank in, I didn’t find myself on the kitchen floor. But I sat on a chair, crying my heart out to the extent that I wanted it to disappear; I didn’t want a broken heart. The sobs that came from my sour lips bounced to the walls and then to oblivion, as if they knew that they were useless anyway.

To wake up in cities I don’t know my way around and have conversations in languages I cannot entirely comprehend.

I didn’t know what to read from these unknown yearnings at around two in the morning, of sad movies or sad songs, or probably just sad love. Or at mid-afternoon, when I wake up wanting something I don’t even know. Or when it rains, trying to reach out my hands and feel the drops and feel, just feel.

There is always this tremendous longing in my heart to be lost,

But after then, I know. I want to be lost in a place unknown, but then find myself in the same location where I think I forgot my soul. I want to wake up and walk to a balcony to see a different set of lights and colors waving at me from the day before. I want my heart to ache with the sight of people falling in love and knowing that I wouldn’t encounter the same love story the next city I’m in. I want to feel the lack of a familiar emotion when I come home, but know someday, I’ll be able to really forget the emptiness in my chest and really come home.

to be someplace else, to be far far away from this.

But I know that with these obligations wrapping me on my neck and disabling me to breathe properly, I have no choice of running away to find out the bliss of going to different places and being held captive by their beauty. I know that being lost in a place where no one knows my name and how my heartstrings tangle each other up to form my lonely soul is better than being found in a place where everyone drags me around and force me to suppress my dreams to want myself and feel myself and love myself after I lose myself.

(eusie.)

I thought of you again

I. I don’t know is not the same as Maybe. I know that you already know this. When you want collide them both just to see their differences, there will be an infinite of numbers — close to millions. But would you really waste your time in doing so? When you can’t even measure out our distance and cut them off just to let me caress your face?

II. I am lost, in which everyone seems to agree but no one dares to give me a map just to find myself, just to help me out of your forest. No one did but still, they search for me, yearn for me, and beg me to come out and save myself from you. Why? Tell me, do you breathe fire? Tell me, will you suffocate me with the words coming out of your mouth? Oh, but it seems to me that I am dizzied with them — every day you feed me with your words, right? You whisper them right through my ear, and sometimes just above my naked skin, you linger your breathing. But no, you do not breathe fire; you breathe dandelions and lilies, and tulips and roses. I am the one who breathes fire. Maybe that’s why you won’t let me get to you; you’re the only who touches me and you won’t let me do it to you. Maybe that’s the reason.

III. There are questions in my head, and they steal all the air in my lungs. Do they seek for answers? Do I seek for answers? Quite, but I yearn for them in you. They are heavy; they make me lifeless and if you weren't around to kiss me, giving me a little life, they’d kill me in a split second. Should I come to you to free them? Or should I just freeze myself, and lock myself away? Since I am scared, I am afraid, I am frightened… of what you’ll say, of what’ll happen because these questions, they might become bullets moving in a flash; they’ll pass through my head in a wink of an eye once you answer something I don’t want to hear.

IV. I am a child; you are my playmate. Picture this: we've been playing happily around for quite some time now, but in times that you leave… I am left behind, waiting for you to come back. Sometimes, you’ll be here after a day, an a hour, a month, a week, two days or five, three weeks, six hours… yes, you come back and you come back with a warm smile, then I welcome you just as equally, forgetting the times I was doubting you wouldn't.

V. It’s because I love you that I always wait for your return, even if sometimes keeping pace with time is tiring that I hope that I’ll stop looking out of my windows for you. And before I know it, my palms are cold and I’ll die of just sweating. Then I’ll remember you again, and I’ll hate you for a while. At some time later, I’ll be back to normal. Yes, I am crazy. I’m sorry. But what I really want to know is when I ask you “Will you ever come back and just stay with me for good?” I hope you won’t give me the words I don’t know or maybe. You should already know why I won’t swallow them. And if everything screws up and you’ll end up in my place, I really want to know… how long will you wait for me to come back? How long will you sing a thousand of melodies just to never bore yourself while you stitch in your crowded mind that you love me; because whenever I wait for you, that’s all I think about but sometimes, I really hope I don’t.

( ayen. & eusie. )

I’m just in love with the idea of love, probably also with the idea of you.

4, 3 & 2 (eusie.)

How to spell?

She starts to talk about Mississippi, and across these ill-painted walls, I hear a whisper. You’re a fool for her.

I remember when my mother used to say, “Don’t use all of your heart,” and “Leave a little bit of love for yourself.” I always rolled my eyes, because I didn’t know back then. And now, if my mother would yell at me for being this close to giving myself up just so she can say she loves me back, I wouldn’t care.

Fighting the urge to caress her cheek, I fond over her smile. She continues to go on about attending her favorite band’s concerts. Her eyes burning like she’s on fire. She says she’s excited to wear her tight black dress if she ever has a chance to go. I notice how her face’s suddenly painted in crimson as she longingly looks to a distance. Then she says, “I want to be kissed by someone as we listen to my favorite song being sang live.”

I could feel my soul closing in on her and kiss her lips, as if I’m the one that she wanted to be with her. But I know she doesn’t. So I pull myself back, and try not to feel hurt.

I return into trance when she mentions my name. That’s when all of my insides dry. But fuck. Her voice is like my blood, and the way the letters of my name slip from her tongue, I would think that she was the one who weaved my being. I ask her what else does she want to talk about.

And if I lose myself once again with just by her presence, I wouldn’t want her to know. I’ll just let her continue to tell the things she dreams about, even if I’m not one of them.

I’m a fool for her. Yes, I am.

(eusie.)

i am not a dreamer. i do not wish upon stars. they will suck every letter of our dreamy words. they let us taste lies from every glimmer they give for our eyes to hold. they look down on us, laughing. they watch us as our grounds shake, as our souls skin out every last smile we own. i am not a dreamer. i am not hopeful. i do not hope for impossible truths. i do not hope for palpable things to become blur. because reality is right in front of us, taking out every pain in between our eyes for us to feel, and we already can’t do anything about it, but to just accept and take everything. what’s on the tip our tongues are mantras we need to swallow. we need to stop hoping. we need to.

eusie., “to the boy who’s in love with the sun” (an excerpt)

Where are you?

a.k.a. I’m drunk and I want to see you

With my hands in my pockets and lips full of cigarette kisses, I throw my shadows on the ground and pull them with me as I travel the city’s ups and downs. My eyes paint your face on every wall that sang a lullaby out of your name. I try to recall if your smile had always been like the fireworks on our every Fourth of July’s, or the sun setting on the background of every late afternoon of our summer lives. But the alcohol is making my memories vague that I also fail to know if I have ever felt those I love you’s coming from in between your lips were really meant for me.

The night sky shouldn't be dark blue but that’s how I see it, maybe because I feel the same way. And then the moon, just as I try to keep my gaze lock to its glow, start to dance. Now I realize that I have once compared you to it. I remember how your eyes sucked every constellation in the universe. I remember how they shined so bright once that I suddenly kissed you. But you became out of my reach now. I stop and suddenly lie down on the middle of the street. There are diamond rusts in my throat, and on my tongue, and it makes me miss the taste of you. I want to cry your name. The stars aren't present tonight just as your warmth is by my side. But the city train is awake; it makes everything smoky, unclear yet loud, just as my thoughts tonight, and just as the beat of my heart.

I breathe, “Alexandria…” I’m afraid I’m still in love with you, even if I haven’t figured it out yet if you ever felt the same way too. There are still a thousand things I haven’t told you. There are still a million things I want to show you. There is still a heartbeat throbbing inside my chest and it holds your name. “Alexandria,” I whisper as tears crawl across my cheeks. I think I had kept my doubts locked in my chest, and the key to their jailed bodies was swallowed by my blindness of loving you so much. But they don’t matter right now. And somehow... maybe... right now, it doesn't matter that you loved me or not. What matters is I believed you did. And it’s fine. It’s fine.

Then I close my eyes.

(eusie.)