sound -

i would tell you
that i miss the sound of your heartbeat against my own,
woven in and out like threads.

especially when i am drowned
by the sound

of my own heavy thoughts

Serendipity, in a city

Here we are, in the most quaint corner. Dotted on the point of the map. Across the Atlantic - in a city so rich in history. This is me - and you, in a quarter among colourful houses and a fountain. Sipping drinks over lunch in Alfama. Where even hanging laundries seemed so pretty. Where narrow alley-ways and true blue skies meet. Where hills and paths of streets shyly reveal views of the sea. Bookmarking frames in my memory.

Here, aimlessly we wander the streets into the night. Among tourists and locals alike. While acoustic strings and wonderful men sing to midnight. While I trail away pieces of me - like breadcrumbs on these cobblestone steps.

Here, where violins and strings made me stop on my tracks. Sitting on the white balcony of a closed Camo Convent, we arrived a little too late. Yet as if it was meant to happen. The sound of "The Prayer" tugged away from the air melodically, and straight to my heart, as it trickled its way down my cheek.

Here, we missed the sunset - overlooking cliffs. Yet, the waves and wind that rushed before me, made me feel a familiarity of tininess I have felt once before this. Remember kayaking under the grotto hours before? How perfectly nature arches itself. How lively the sky seemed - reminding me to breathe when I feel restless and breathless by such beauty.

Here, under the stars of a breezy night. Tell me things. Of family. Alluding to unconditional love I know you are capable of. Of which maybe I will never have, but I may have glimpsed briefly.

Here, in transit - in between reflections. In silence. Between stolen glances you sneak, until our eyes meet. Make me believe again, that I can be less alone. Make me believe again, that I am home - even though I am far away from where I should be.

Here, where many fado singers echo the voices of the country. Little did we know that they would serenade us, while my hands clasped between yours - and my heart, soul, breath feel as full as the moon above me.  As we sit in the attic of the hostel on our last night, overlooking the castelo - already reminiscing the mysterious paths and moments of wandering lost in this city. Sighing away, sharing secrets and stories.

Here, for a moment, I was able to see and feel everything before me. It was as if wandering lost, allowed me to collect myself - and find all of me.

there is this weight in my chest that sorta tumbles a little when i breathe and i am afraid it will make me crumble when i am among strangers.

Missing can only occur with a departure.

I used to believe that every breath inhaled becomes a tiny part of one's soul. And you will breathe until the soul is complete, and has reached a point of fulfillment.

My heart feels like it is drowning. I don't think I am strong enough for this. 

Most graceful and most compassionate.

To the most merciful of this universe.

Of the depth and deepness, with every weakness I feel within me. 

Between tangible silences.

Ever in denial.

To the Keeper of Secrets, forgive him. 

Grant his family ease, strength and comfort.

You are but all-knowing. 

Gentleness

as soft glowing, snowflakes
& here I fall again.

Litany

Hi, you. How are you? A litany of rhythm rings through my mind. In repetition. Like a catalogue of time. Of winds, and unwind. There is no meaning in mere recitation. 

There are many unspoken edges. Many words to say, but little meanings can be left unconveyed. Maybe they were conveyed. Or my mannerisms were off.

But we are often misunderstood. We like to misunderstand each other. Or not. Maybe misunderstanding is something we both are great at. Unintentionally, like the many things we have done in the past. In our lives. Accidentally. Life is a bucketlist of mistakes afterall, with bullet-points that leave holes marking moments we once thought were bullet-proof.

So here is a little post-it note, if you will. I have many words, maybe little meanings. Or does it matter, for it will all be misunderstood anyway.

For it all,

I only wish

that your mended heart

be safe to embrace again

there is nothing else i want more than to feel this way.

Punctuations.

Ends and beginnings are marked by the same punctuation. How I interpret the sentence before and after is entirely subjective. Contextual, even. For it takes time to understand meanings.

Words can trigger feelings. But I have always wondered about how silly it is, that some feelings cannot be put into words. 

Right now, it feels like I swallowed my own heart. A familiar feeling. It is a weird dull ache, in my chest. For which I have no rational explanation for - how paradoxically foreign. But a positive one, I assure. 

I am fractioned and frictioned by this arrangement. This feels like chasing for temporary highs. I used to love city lights, now I am afraid I might rupture.

echoes

It puzzles me how the greatest courage comes from the most vulnerable moment,
How you can spend a lifetime with someone, to realize you know nothing about them at all,
That in the moment of pain seared so deeply, you can find numbness

More so,
That in the most fragile moment,
Where you think you have lost everything
& sunk to the very bottom of cynicism....

You realize that you are still capable of loving.
The heart still beats, though out of tune-
You feel it, against the laws of gravity, it keeps you down.

You are still capable of loving...
you are still capable of loving,

& you will keep repeating those words, as if to hold on to it-
so it never flies away.

in echoes.

Lines

Re-write a story told in your head a hundred times. The same story when penned down will have more meaning. But will it lose its original meaning?

I am not the lines of words I've put down. Nor am I how you interpret me. & believe me when I say, that there is more to me than what you think you've understood from reading between lines.

There we stand at a different time, at the same place, facing the self we once tried to hide. So desperately we try to grasp, so we never lose ourselves again

Pier

I just want to sit on a bench by a pier.
Staring at the harbour, with a coffee cup in my hand.
And maybe a notebook on my lap.

The stale air from these walls have suffocated my clarity
& I can sense creativity rustling,
blowing away like early autumn leaves

hurricane

When you're going against the currents,
the winds of the hurricane,
the hail of the storms
you sometimes forget that you're still standing
even if you're not moving,
you're still standing
                       -i guess it's something to be grateful for.

No matter how many times I stare at the sidewalk,
Staring doesn't get me anywhere.
But then again, I can put many fronts to my face,
but it is not a uniform that makes a soldier brave.

The summer storm of my mind

Summer brings out the flirty skirts and sunshine smiles,
But most tempestuous thoughts thunder and rain into words too,

In mid-July-
This summer mind of mine.

The weatherman finds it hard to predict,

Yet he loves endlessly
& pockets an umbrella in his heart for me.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself that I am only human,
Even when I am capable of experiencing a thousand emotions at once.

People and parameters

Did I choose this path?
Sometimes I wish I wasn't so fragile,
I am so tired of missing people.