I haven’t written any poetry about you. I used to do that to
people who delight my day with a cup of coffee or a pack of chips—because I’m
sentimental and little things easily move me. I remember you picking on my food
while we’re having lunch—you love vegetables as much as I do. I remember you offering me a bite of your cake—you hand
me your fork covered with icings. I remember how we shared a bottle of water. I
remember the pot we lit under the northern sky. I remember every single detail,
even the surprise of that spine-tingling rub you did when you played with my hair. I remember
the tunes we sang together and the mixed-tapes we traded. But still, no poem was
written to sketch such sentiments into words.
Maybe because, you don’t deserve the kind of poetry I write.
You deserve much better writings. You deserve much better sentiments than this
kind of infatuation I easily give to strangers whom I just met. I am too messed
up to give something more. I’ve been in this abstract state for quite some time
now and this surreal space where I currently wonder and wander is becoming too
comforting, that I don’t want to leave and take more risk.
Rub my back. Hold my hand. Bring me to my bed. Kiss me
goodbye. Let me fall asleep.
