I pray for your happiness more than I pray for mine.

Don’t ask me how I feel about you,

Because the answer is the same.

I honestly don’t know.

I know that the way I view your personality

Has changed over the years,

Which makes it confusing for me to figure out my feelings.

I don’t think I’ll ever love myself wholeheartedly,

Because if I did, I would have accepted your love.

I never think I deserve that kind of admiration.

Maybe that’s why I can only chase behind those

Who can love me less than I do.

Don’t ask me if there’s any hope,

Because the answer is still the same.

I hope you’ll find someone better

Who can love you the way you deserve to be loved.

I feel like,

I can never allow myself to be with you

Because I think too highly of you.

And I think too little of myself.

How many do I need to smoke to burn…?

Chain-smoking.

A new hobby, a habit.

How many do I need to smoke to burn my lungs?

How black are my lungs now?

Are they black as my soul?

Stained by all of the sins I’ve done and will do?

How will I describe them if I ever dissect myself?

Black as charcoal?

Black as midnight with a few popping stars that faintly shine, indicating some kind of existing hope?

How many do I need to smoke to destroy my lungs, so it can shut-down my heart?

Why do I need to indirectly damage my heart?

Why don’t I just get a knife and stab it already and get it over with?

Why all of this dramatic slow suicide?

Ah, yes.

Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten.

I don’t want them to directly look and know that the problem lies in my heart.

I don’t want them to find the name carved within that bloody muscle.

I don’t want them to blame you.

I don’t want them to find out about all this love that I am saving for you.

I don’t want them to find the painful sufferings and point their fingers at you.

I don’t want you to know that these are my true emotions towards you.

I don’t want my strong self to be crushed by this weakly that I am now.

I want the love I have in this beating muscle of mine to be hidden from prying eyes, including you.

I want to burn it along with my soul and leave no trace of it in this cruel world.

So tell me,

How many do I need to smoke to burn my existence from history?

Redefine 

We’re sitting on the ground; he’s leaning on the tree, and I’m leaning on him.

I made sure I got a lot of cushions; one behind his back in case the tree is rough and the rest just scattered around us.  

We’ve set up a projector just a couple of meters away.

He says we could watch whatever I like. I say then I’d watch you. 

He smiles softly and asks again. So, I choose an anime he’s watching that I haven’t yet started. 

Sitting between his legs, his arms hugging me close, my hands interlocked with his, his fingers gently stroking mine. 

We did not need to bring any flashlights; the stars are shining above us.

The sky is a witness for a compassion two beings have willingly shared. 

The wind exists in transparent waves, blowing my hair that is brushed across his face. 

He giggles, pushing away my hair to one side, as he sinks his face into my neck.

He holds me tighter; my back is pressed against his torso, so warm and comforting.

I can feel his breaths; his facial hair like feathers teasing my collar. 

A prey of a vampire who I have chosen on my own. 

I call his name. He interrupts with that one word that can clench the muscle in my chest and electrify my senses, sending a shock of haziness to my brain. 

He smirks, knowing the effect of his bewitchment, but still, he says it again – this time, closer to my ear. 

My eyes shot open. 

Life is being nourished by his proximity. 

Attention diverted from the perfect date to focus on our existence as one entity. 

Where time’s only definition is merely…our existence.

Chasing after the sun.

Like the sun, you make my palms sweat and my heart palpate.
You brighten my life and leave my darkness shadowed behind me.
You surround me most of the day, warming me like a piece of clothing I wear, but disappear at night,
Then I find myself chasing after your existence, but end up writing words that don’t even rhyme