some flowers only bloom at night.

there are certain values
of life
that stemmed from the same root,
certain details of us that
branched into different
routes--
they walk blindly on rain-slicked streets
while time is fleeting by in
a whirlwind thunderstorm,
and memories are slipping away like
water in their hands.

it's everything she believes in that
is going to be proven wrong,
and when that clock strikes, she'll be
already
gone.
there's a gravity-defying fear in the back of
her mind, bubbling and frothing
to the surface of her--

it's late when
these miracles glow with the stars,
so what is there left
to trust (in)?

there are some days where she's
more helpless than others, and all the
leaves on their tree has dried with age.
she leans on fragile branches and grasps rotting bark,
where one wrong move is ten feet down.

in her dreams, she builds treehouses
at dawn and sleeps through sunsets, and
holds on to their unspoken promises so that she's
not left dangling with one foot in the air--

and today she just can't catch her breath,
can't even see her hands stretched out in front of her through this fog...
today is a little more
suffocating
than most days,
and all she can do is recite a
mantra of clichés and
hope for the closest miracle.

every year on september first, the leaves outside
her apartment turn rich with color.
these are new promises hanging on each vein, and
old regrets trailing along the branches, but most of the time
they don't notice the less obvious.

on certain days later in autumn,they'll raise a toast
to the years of memories leading up to today. afterwards,
they'll light their fireplace and sprawl out on the rug,
talking about anything and nothing and everything--

there are too many happy endings in most stories,
but she isn't asking for much this year, maybe just her
peace of mind for the future.

i wish i could remember every moment of
this life, she said,
as she pressed her palms into greener grass,
morning dew soaking into her faded jeans.

(please, she whispered into his hair,
i just want to be your everything)

but these pieces aren't complete, he pulled her
towards the other tree,
and they carved their initials jaggedly
into the trunk of the tree, well out of
heaven's reach.

it's beautiful, she thought, but i need
those
answers.
because she knew that at night,
sin and virtue become one, and they had
absolutely nothing.

today, i can't read between the lines
of these words. i can't hide behind the language
of these thoughts. i just--
can't.

sometimes sometimes the world just
melts together in a whirlwind of
color, and i can't find
lines or edges or defining features of
anything.

i don't have the best or the worst,
but being caught in between is
sometimes just as bad.

all i can think of is happiness ten years
from now, but
that excuse just isn't good enough
anymore.

i can't live in the past
but i'm trying so hard to live in that
imaginary future.
but i can't, i can't.

please help. please.

so last tuesday, while we were making
wishes out of paper airplanes, and
collages from forgotten stories,
she was on the couch, building their love on
last century's old polaroids.
she had memories preserved on paper from
another world and those
torn pieces of film were her only
window to what had been--

because photographs are justice for
what our minds don't remember,
but sometimes (somedays) in some
cases, she thinks,
we'd rather not remember anything
at all.

twenty minutes till midnight and we're
keeping it turning, like little wheels
of clockwork intelligence behind the scenes.
she's gone through literary prose, stanzas and
syllables, climbed brick walls and
broken dams.

baby, this is where we are
today,
breathing, drinking, living poetry,
sprawled on the backseat of a ford sedan,
fingers crossed and toes curled to
wish upon a falling star--
but all that's left are bright city lights,
beautiful only from
above.

in this lifetime, we bask in sunshine secrets,
take baby sips of that nicotine-laced mojito and
ask ourselves if words are
stronger than emotions—

such stories only hurt
at night.

tomorrow, i'll have that post-it note
pressed against my dashboard,
broken confessions from a hazy night,
for a boy i can't remember.

there is less smoke in the city
this time around, and less opportunities
to tell our stories.
we have truth in the alleyways and
honesty in the palm of our hands,
because that's the only way to protect
virtue from the
city
smog.

at night, we dream in monotone and
cry for the things we've lost.
all i have left are secrets like broken glass,
swept into dusty metal pans and thrown out back
right into the dumpster.
we live in cities of hopes and dreams,
where reality no longer exists, and this
is the only
way i know how to
make amends.

she fell in love on a
thursday with flowers behind
her back. there's stock photography
on the walls and polaroid memories
in her pockets as she
sips on her latest
adrenaline rush,
cigarette between two fingers and
romance novels under her tongue.
you and i are meant to.
be.

the sea is washing away all traces
left of us, baby, because
we're taking a train beyond
our last stop,
caution to the wind and fear in our fingertips--
this is your sweetest poison, boy,
&most definitely your last.

[the beginning]

Angels fall when we're not watching.

You see, our story is not that simple. There is a fundamental gap in our memories we cannot bridge. We dream of wings and feathers, and wake up to blank walls. Sing of heaven on earth and close our eyes before sinners. Touch the hearts of those we love and break the hearts of those we abandon in our haste to save ourselves from reality. We are selfish, you see. We are human.

Sometimes, so are they.

thirty seconds before 12am, and the clocks are
freezing again--

there's too much fog on
the windows to see out, much too perfect to
even touch,
it's just our stuck-up curiosity lingering in
shadowed corners leftover from
yesterday's latest break.up--
they're phenomenal in the best possible ways
disillusioned from already-leaked secrets,
and the world outside is too late
anyway.

there's a little orphan girl across the street,
selling matchsticks for money;
she leans against frozen lampposts to catch
her
breath, (cold against the winter air)
she dreams of opaque windows blinded by
warmth and heat, but--
it's our fogged windows she cannot see through
and our locked doors she doesn't step through
but our latest sins are too strong
even for those glass windows.

we're sipping lukewarm poison in front of
the fireplace,
taking life for granted in our most
favorite ways while
the little girl
falls
asleep
as her last match burns out.

a/n. trying something new. rhymes in the most disjointed way, atonal in the least expected phrase, almost like the best kind of contemporary music. hehe♥ thoughts?

hello. so here we are, with approximately 11 hours and 44 minutes to go (pacific time, don't argue!). this DW is nowhere as personal to me as my LJ is, but it is synched to FB, so i feel slightly obligated to make one of those cliché, end-of-the-year posts here. except this post isn't so cliché (i hope).

so, here's some spur-of-the-moment, 10-minutes-long writing. don't expect to have an epiphany (or any phenomenal reaction, for that matter) upon clicking the cut.

( just another one of those days. )

happy (almost) new year! :)

last but not least, i'd like to say the following to the current and upcoming year:

dear 2009,
thank god you're over. may you disappear into history forever.
no love, me.

dear 2010,
don't fuck up my boys. thanks.
pending love, me.

there are days when she remembers to stop and just think, maybe about the way nostalgia is imprinted in negative film. memories in picture form, but more surreal than words on paper.

( it's the sunny days that make it hard. )

maybe things are a little better on
the other side of the bridge, but
each time is
not the same--

there are some days where we'll
lay in the grass side-by-side and
look up into the sky as if
those clouds will paint
tomorrow's story.
these are colors too white to describe,
shapes too ambiguous to decide--
you'd say, that hesitance is
tomorrow's history.
as if the world is at your feet
and you have nothing to lose.

so we let go.

tomorrow we'll drive by mcdonalds on
unnamed roads to unknown cities with
nothing but the clothes on our backs
and the wind in our ears.
the music is
playing louder now, and that beat
is ingrained in our hearts.
it'll be freedom in a way we've never imagined
half-hearted risks we've never taken,
fogged up windows and crookedly-drawn hearts
in the nostalgia of tomorrow's history.

it's just the wind, now, with silent lips.

i wish i could write things that
beautiful, she says
to blank walls and imaginary posters.

some people paint the sky in pinks and oranges until
they can't see the difference between
dawn and
sunset.
others shade forest paths of
black and white
onto beautiful wax paper with
ink. to watch the way
parallels blend into perpendiculars--
something profound.

you'd read me your pseudo-poetry in the
heat of summer behind a rose bush, and we'd
prick our fingers, rip our shirts
in a rush of adrenaline untraceable.
there are greater things out there, i'd say,
and imagine wind carrying such wise words
to that neighborhood kid down the block,
but such philosophies get stifled on particularly
hot
days.

sunday afternoons in empty classrooms are
better on wintry days.
we'd dangle our legs over plastic desks and
read the secrets splayed
on the side, under the surface, next to that
piece of gum--
secrets grow like ivy vines here, long and twisted and
very much alive.
in another universe, the table says but
never finishes the thought.

in another universe, we'd
love like puppets do,
no strings attached, and a little less geometrical
because that's the only way we'd be able to fly.

you are not here, but
i am.

as if anger can make words bleed—

it’s the early morning sentimentality that simmers
behind her eyes, while she breathes in
and out, one breath
after another.
she’s not as perfect as
silent china dolls,
far from fixed
porcelain faces,
and maybe a little more broken up inside. she’s
inferior in every way, incompetent in every case,
hates clichés and lives in one, pretending
that anger can cut like knives—

as if.

sometimes they don’t see
the reality in our words or think about
the ordinary nights we
sit at our desks and type away on another
blank document;

it’s not all fancy journals or
the latest font trends—but maybe
a dash of our favorite songs
and dim lights to set the mood;

usually there is no extra
midnight black eyeliner
or chipped nail polish,
or even those 13 piercings and red contacts,

most of the time they don’t see
the reality between the letters
or the ordinary kid with the ordinary
laptop—

not quite true rebels but not quite real adults
just kids with
lip-sealed secrets.

these are the kids who fight to
write
against the world.
it can be crooked letters of imperfect
handwriting that stand sharp against
coffee-stained, wrinkled pieces of
ripped binder paper,
or romantic scrawls on the trunk of a city sapling
still supported by rotting wooden sticks—
someday they will fit in (somewhere), but
today they will jot their stories in
broken words on tattered scraps because
they know that it doesn’t have to be true,
just real.

theirs was not a dramatic love story,
nothing like the soap operas
on t.v.
there were no fireworks, celebrations,
(or congratulations)
just a simple touch of fingers,
lips to lips,
soft.
and.
warm—
theirs was not a hollywood romance,
but it could be the quiet blooming of a flower
in spring, still hidden from the world,
just two boys who want to be
together.