This isn’t a love story.
This is merely a bland representation of our or my past–
I’m not sure which pronoun to use, though:
My or our?
My past or our past?
But if I were to decide, let me just say
It’s our–
Our plain history.
Misery–the tone must be about misery.
But should a writer talk about grief?
How about joy or glee?
Let me write an imagery of bliss.
How ’bout this?
I’ll take my own point-of-view:
You were the view from my balcony
On your patio, with you Panic! at the Disco
Shirt and headphones on.
It was a cold Christmas eve.
The bells ring and I remembered:
You were someone from high school.
Cool–that’s how I see you
But there’s something in your eyes
That no one seems to notice.
No offense meant–
They are beautiful
But they spoke sorrow the moment they met mine.
I was sober, then.
Caught up between counting the stars
To see all the graces or blessings
And hoping that a comet will come across the sky
Wishing my life will burst out along with my sufferings
But you were there.
My spiraling thoughts have shifted to a beautiful disaster.
Another thing I knew was that
I was having a conversation with you.
I’ve seen Judah Smith on your shelf
And from that moment, I knew you could be the one
But you told me your faith became way too small,
You’ve lost yourself and all.
I was about to say, “So have I,”
Instead I threw hints by sharing my favorite
Emily Dickinson poems and Mayday Parade songs.
We exchanged nods and glances.
It tasted like chances not bruises.
The haze of that December night
Covered us with mist–frosty and wintry
Along with the song of Cavetown: Talk to Me.
You said you wanted to dance but you have nobody.
It was my eyes’ cue to tell you,
You have me.
We didn’t miss the slow song,
Accompanied with every rhythm.
We exchanged stories about our prom
Way back in high school.
I didn’t know you wanted to ask me then.
I didn’t know you love Cavetown as well.
I remember you asked me for a coffee date,
I lied when I said I hate coffee.
I replied late, sorry.
I just don’t want to go outside.
I can’t let you see my anxiety.
That’s one thing I can’t abide.
It could gobble me up entirely
Like, how should I say how I like my coffee?
What if I miss one thing?
What if I stutter when I utter “Ristretto?”
What if I forget to tell how many shots and cream I need?
Alternatively, I told you I wanted to see the stars with you.
Across the high hanging bride,
We could talk about the multiverse.
I know our lives are a curse
But I see other recurring dimensions, portals, sites.
We could take advantage of heights, of altitude.
It can be our prelude.
If only you could
But you are just afraid of heights.
You are afraid of heights.
I found myself twiddling and striding
Around the outskirts and suburbs of my own setting
Trying to find myself in transversive novels,
I never thought I’d get more lost between pages
Until I became aware of the fact that I started to read Colleen Hoover
And god, I have visualized you in every romantic scene.
You are the hero I see in every chapter
But in your point-of-view, I might not even be a character.
Sometimes, I long to ask if you ever read me
In a happy poetry
Or if one story resembles our memory
Because in my paper, you are engraved in a lopsided plot twist;
You don’t just exist;
You live in my accounts of everything literary
And in return, you have ended this story
Without even telling what are we.
Jefayerytales 