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

visceral

how does it feel,
to see the trees burn fiery red?
when the skin longs for a palm of heat
but what caresses is
minty autumn breeze?

how does it feel,
when the trickling carillon of the piano keys flutter?
does it make your heartbeat tiptoe and twirl
into light pirouettes-
leaving you in wonder
at what this tender,
muscle of yours is yearning for?

how does it feel,
to breathe a moment?
do you sigh a little
and savour sweetness in reprieve?

& maybe
no matter how convincing
you tell yourself that your feelings are soundproof
it begs its way to be heard
beating in discord to the rhythm of your chest,
and in disguised
in the clandestine corner of your mind

words will be forgotten,
but in echoes, i know
the soul remembers how to feel

a meridian

the zenith is not a desert
in desertion where blowing sands
is your only company

nor is it in the dark, lamp lit street
where warmth of late summer
moist-instilled breeze
cool your fatigued blood
into humility

when you find,
that home is the road all along
where salvation is
the ability to reflect

it is sometimes woven into
mittens of reminisces
or fortresses
of unspoken feelings

Rekindling

Make no apologies for why things did not become as you thought it would. Make no apologies for letting yourself submerge into the darkness and abyss. Into what you thought was fire, red and passion. Make no apologies for a choice. For choosing. For a realization that you have hands. For feeling things with your fingertips you thought were intangible. Make no apologies to release. For letting go of a rope in a tug of war. For letting yourself pull and be pulled, for the calluses that burned, marking fate in your life-lines. It was never a noose, nor should you let yourself be convinced otherwise. Make no apology for self-love. For the realization of how much destruction self-loathing can do to you.

Expect nobody to understand what you are, where you are, and how you are going through it all. For it was never anybody's but yours alone, to know the real you.

& I am more in love with my life than I have ever been before.

-written Aug 21st, 2014

There are two different kinds of sensitivity. One who seeks sympathy. And another who feels for others out of empathy...

& I wonder whether I fall in between.

Street side piano man

I was hypnotized as his fingers danced on the keys. Summer night showered its heat upon my skin. Breathless- but I breathed in nostalgia. My heart swooned at every note my ears captured. It felt like falling in love. How beautiful it is to be able to yearn. And to feel the cavity of my chest be weakened by such captivating sounds...

as all around me, Montreal brought back memories of my last visit.

He sat out on the streets, on a stool with the words "Silence sucks" sticker-ed against black. How ironic that I have feared silence as much as loneliness, yet here I am.

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.