Digital

You’re my favourite poet
I tell him in
An imagined–
quiet
vague
disguise

The LED flashes
Cyan
And our words matter only
as much as
the screen that glows
A white separation

We are voiceless?

I had the Holy Internet
Tell me that we are each other’s
kryptonite
So I let it set

only because we are digital

And this note on an app
Tapped with letters
Drawled in blocks

What do glowing
alphabets mean?

We are voiceless
to each other

Bukowski never angrier
But only in my head

Written on Google Keep

I would blame it
on daylight growing thin
(if I could)

(But the world fleeting
ephemeral beauty
sunsets tread on water)

and days hummed
monotony
are the mind’s dissolution
to a weary loss

live to lie, lie to live

There is wonder–

if the sky gets worn
from changing hues;
if the sun fazes
from its temporal stage
of dawn to dusk
Words resigned to code
spoken in binary
LIE LIE LIE,”
the soldiers cry
it only hurts when
a loved one dies.
It’s a wonder
if pursuits are battles,
if masked-worn faces
become faces-worn masks.
To an unending masquerade
of building apathy.

Daylight trying to break free.

Should conviction stay still and unchanging, I would have sat here silent as the world sheds in its anthropomorphic nature. But it is difficult, as all convictions are and the lines are fading. Mind—divulging—sorrow—wasps— There is temporary quiet for now, and absence is noted; the heart is absent. Could things be any better, any worst or the same? Like same is same on an early afternoon, where the walks are bitter and archaic in defiance, and feelings languidly pass as fingers mount on chapped knee caps. Time becomes an interval where my grasp is weak and the soul is meager, like daylight trying to break free.

“What is this benign madness?”, you ask. As the rain douses aching hearts on an afternoon too early. You wonder why the rooftops are silent though it is raining and offer an all-too-far-fetched response, like how the sound of sorrow during heartbreaks (like as if all things the eye cannot see makes a sound; you believe that flowers talk with actual voices) transcends the self and senses and the world falters when one slurs in a metaphysical state of mind blah blah blah blah blah. I listen half-heartedly as your slow drawls and whispers start rising in high pitches of excitement.

Jimmy

He always loved maps. He supposed that those who drew maps were essentially explorers as well. So while he grew up, it wasn’t surprising to learn that he wanted to be a cartographer. Most importantly, when he met her.

It wasn’t so hard to see how his eyes gazed a second to long at her back with neck innocuously shown. It would seem that his ambition has moved on to be one where he wished he could, if possible, be a cartographer not in the physical sense of the word; rather, he would be a cartographer of her.

He would be the one who would study her. He would be the one to pinpoint unchartered territories on her skin, with child-like wonder. He would discover depths in her eyes, most probably soften his gaze as he discovered sensuality in her. The crevices of her body and skin; each scar, blemish and mark, mapped into lines and symbols by his affection and curiosity. His calloused hands would remind him of how graceful hers are compared to his. And like the world to be explored; she was his world. He would draw the map with details, and details would always matter, details would never be enough to cover more details, because her essence if forever wafting. And like the world which in nature is a paradox — he would discover her temperaments that elicits wildness and danger. Everything in her that lies in tragic obscurity would be for him to learn, to understand. He would realize that, through all that effort–sometimes pained and futile–there really was so much more to her, and how little there is to his knowledge.

His greatest map drawn would be the one of her, on her, for her.

A/N: I don’t like this that much :/