You can never survive this unscathed.

Once there was a village located next to a long stretch of train tracks. The village was old, the faces there were stale and bored minds longed for the outside world, to jump on the train and lose themselves in the infinite possibilities that lie somewhere at the end of the tracks. The desire was strong in each of them, choking their hearts and whispering night and day night and day and night; especially at night when sounds were loudest. The whisper went slow at first "I wish I can go away I wish I can go away" and then it slowly picked its pace like a train leaving its station "IwishIcangoawayIwishIcangoawaygoawaygoaway" and the momentum consumed them.

But no one ever got on the train, because as much as they'd like to, they could never leave.

R

You told me to write a letter to you, and I asked you why. You shrugged and looked away and the subject was dropped.

I cannot write a letter to you because there was too much to say and there were too little words. What would you have me write? That I look for excuses to talk to you longer on the phone, or if we were in the car? That I get annoyed if you ask me to rest instead of seeing you because I prefer the latter? That I replay the conversations we've had in my head and smile? That I look for your car whenever we drive past its usual parking space? (Or the fact that I feel sad and a little lonely now that it's vacant?) That I look for you at all?

In my head I did exactly that, I wrote many letters to you.

I kept them in my eyes, I locked them behind pursed lips. But if you listen; you'll find them screaming between skipped heartbeats, in every impulse, as loud as the ocean.

Of saying goodbye.

I remember you, that day, at the airport. I kept counting the steps to you, to your face. Of whose countenace I had not behold for years; but there I was, clutching my nerves, walking to you just to say goodbye. I remember your surprise. I remember leaving you to your friends that night. And then I remember your eyes searching mine as you said thank you for coming to see me off. I remember the past coming back to choke me; of writing cryptic poems to each other, of nervous attempts to wear our hearts on our sleeves. I remember the things we left unsaid.
Then I remember you turning around and walking off and never looking back. I remember wondering if you ever would.

I remember running, that night. Looking for something I was not sure of.

In the palm of your hand

You got me like an oscilloscope reading of voices. Voices in my head, we go up and down like a rollercoaster. You got me like a turbulent plane ride on the way to nowhere and everywhere in particular. You got me like a crippled gymnast balancing on needles.

You got me.

If it’s true that we’re continuously changing, I don’t want you to miss the persons I’ve been in even one milisecond.

..and we have been reduced to making friends with a snail under the streetlight by the lake with neon echoing from the other side; resounding. Superficial life and artificial constellations hey!
(What are we chasing, really?)

The cloud looked like naked eye leukocytes trying to heal the wounds of a scratch the sky just acquired. (Gold dust was smeared instead of iodine I should think, given the flirtatious stars that winked in and out of observation)

Then we went to sleep because of our REM debts, because we are young, because we are restless.

& this morning sees my hand on my face, supporting the weight of the burden my head had decided to carry. My watch on my cheek, inches from my ear but the tick tick tick tick tick of the seconds cry like a countdown from each breath that is held as I wait for your reply on the phone.