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Rapture

There stood a tower high in the sky,

and the people all cried.

For they had seen the brightest of days

but soon after they died.

They said, where have you gone my religion,

far off to a heaven,

where too few angels walk down the streets,

giving bread unleaven.

Life has a funny way of saying,

many thanks for playing.

Make peace with whoever you can now,

you will be soon praying.

So we were waking in that moment,

like age old queens and kings.

I want to be standing next to you

at the end of all things.

Love in the Time of H1N1 (2)

What is an echo?

An echo is reflection. A man looking in the mirror and realizing, only too late, that he has indeed grown old. Gone is the once youth that littered those eyes of his. Stretched and uneven, the earth of his skin, as if they have seen the seasons more than their fair share. The lips that kissed with the force of a titan, now reduced to that of a dwarf, cracked and hobbled in its dealings with words. It is a portrait of just missing the excitement of an opportunity that happens only once in a lifetime.

So it is that when the words were uttered from his mouth, he felt a small tickling deep within himself. That echo which is so familiar to the rest of us, now balanced precariously in his mind. The tipping of which could prove success or failure.

"Hello. Are you the one doing my costume?"
It was a simple question, but one fraught with so much meaning. In many aspects it was to become the nature of their relationship. He was to provide the cloth, and she the mender. The expertise of master weaver, in whose deft hands needle and thread become the instruments which can repair even the torn cloth which was once seamless.
"Yes, what is your character?"

"A villager. The village chief, I think."

"Oh, yours is special then. Here, try this on."

"I don't think they fit, leh" he said, holding up the pair of woven burlap to the light. Frays dotted the
edges; in his hands they felt warm, grazing against the skin ever slightly. 

"It's okay, you try it on first then we'll know."

"Alright, but don't say I didn't tell you first."

With a swift motion he wrapped the vest around his chest, feeling the prickly vines of sackcloth dig into his skin. Dry vines searching for water amidst an arid desert of human flesh.

"See? It's too tight."

"Okay la, you're right. Okay, looks like we have to change it then. Maybe make the sleeve area a little bigger."

"Maybe just a little. Wait what's your name?"

"Beverly." There was an air of innocence in the way she said it. As if it rolled off the tongue like smooth chocolate in a glass bowl.

"How about, I call you Costume Girl Number One instead, seeing as how there are so many of you around, a bit like elves."

"Huh? No, my name is Beverly." Again, that look of purity, mixed with a tinge of playful indignation.

"Costume Girl Number One it is then," he said with a smile and an echo.

Love in the Time of H1N1 (1)

He looks at them all; the room filled with so many people from so many walks of life. A skinny one with a hairband. The one who wears his pants just a little too high to be considered fashionable. A white-skinned tall one, with huge eyes that seem to follow you everywhere. All of them rummaging through the mess that is humanity, all of them going their own direction. He probably knew half of them in his past life, and will probably know the other half in the life to come.

Does he bother them? No, he keeps to his bubble. His space. A fortress of solitude where one can be safe wearing the armor of a recluse. In a place where the very land itself was bloated with the remains of those who occupy it, how lonely can one possibly be? The answer to which, he thought, was easy. Collision. God himself must find Heaven filled to the brim. Little did He know that when He was feeding the five thousand He would have to feed another five million more Colliding with each other, constantly brushing against the outer rims of emotional reach, the occasional wave by the walkway. Tiring, he thought, but perhaps, necessary.

Then he noticed something. Not so much an anomaly but a hope. Hope, he recalled, was cruel. Like a mistress that you stole away with to a secret solace, little knowing that behind that smile which saved, was a dagger waiting to find its home in your stomach. But still, he was curious. Gathering all remnants of his dignity (and there was not much of that left either), he stood up and walked across the multitude. Brushing against others, body colliding against body. They became nothing more than grass, and he was the bushman, cutting through swaths of them, as if they were the only impediment to a warm home and a hot bowl of soup waiting on the table.

"Hello."

Love in Stop-Motion

Komaneko ♥s

(I would adopt you if I could)

Tuesday Nights

I lie face up, awake.
Her legs are on top of mine, and I can't move.
Tilt my head to the right,
her breathing is rhythmic, slow.
I see her beauty.
Her breasts rise up, then fall down,
drumbeats that lost much of their force
but still fighting to keep up with the music.
I blink, once, twice.
She lies still asleep.

I lie face up, awake.
My legs are on top of his, refusing to move.
From the corner of my eye.
I pretend to sleep,
for that is how I dream.
His body is shadowed, formless.
Memories of a time when things shone
brighter than the street lamps down our door.
I blink, once, twice.
He lies still asleep.

If I had but your Wan'dring eye

If I had but your Wan'dring eye,
content myself for seven days,
till whence I should next see you by,
perchance again to catch your gaze.
Within that time with Patience wait,
whilst keeping still that dearest heart,
but beat towards its single fate,
till seven days after to part.
Ah, if this time of ours should end,
for stolen by a future worse,
I by mine sight alone contend,
the one to whom belongs this verse.