We don’t have to take our clothes off

take my hand
and lead me to
the floor

let’s hold each other
and move along
as the rhythm goes,
as the music like
the southwesterly breeze

we can sway
our feet
while your hazel eyes
sing the song
of this cold snap night

let’s just have
fun, we don’t
have to take our clothes off

If I die tomorrow

If I die tomorrow
would you
miss me?

Would you miss
the dance of my naked footsteps
on the cold wooden floor

Would you miss
my voice
in your ears

Would you miss
getting lost
in my coffee pool eyes

Would you miss
my laugh
echoing through your heart

Will you miss
the way
the rise
the fall
of my chest quickens
when you’re near

Will you miss
how I tug
at your heart strings
with such ease

or how easily
you tug
at mine

Would you miss
the taste of spices
on my skin
from turning my empty house
into a home
whenever I cooked
for you

Would you miss
my Ying
to your Yang

Will there be
an empty space
in your heart
from all the times
I rested
my ear against you
to listen
to the song
your heart sings

Will there be
an empty space
in your heart

your heart

where you keep
a special place
for me


what about your mind?

Will it be
the same
when I’m gone


Will you always
remember the nights
we spent
talking about
our true selves
how we’ll
take over the
dreamed about
having skinny feet

Will you remember

your eyes
my favorite color

your “hello”
my favorite sound

your warmth
my favorite feeling

Will you miss
the way
I already miss you?

Heart-Shaped Box

I want to cry. And cry more. I don’t remember the last time I cried. Well I do, but it’s been so long that the whole event seems like some distant memory of past which is all but blurred out in front of my eyes right now. No, my eyes feel tired. Tired of looking at every little piece of nuisance become an integral part of this beautiful green world. They close themselves, my eyes. They’re not dry. Just tired and full of emotions. Emotions that vary on a high scale. They are constantly suffering. Scientifically too, if you want to look at them that way. But more concerning is the spirituality and innocence of them.

Everything, and I mean everything, is fucking them over. The people, useless jobs, waste of potential, worthless concerns, they don’t need all that bullshit. What happened to the sight of the sunset, the rays that breach your protective layers and are warmly accepted by your eyes like a mother receiving her son coming home after a long time? The birds, and their random flights, full of dreams and hopes of survival, focusing on what’s most important. That’s love to the eyes. They want to see as far as they can. Across the horizon and even more.

Towards the sky and inside a soul.

“What all do we rule, dad?” “We rule as far as you can see Simba.” Freedom. That’s what is conveyed by the bedtime stories. But they are not here anymore. Those bedtime stories. It’s all real but even more fake than ever. As fake as one can get. About everything. Inside out. To that extent where fake is real and real is fake. Cobain is singing about the heart-shaped box right now. Is that where true freedom and love for my eyes lie? I wonder. At least something isn’t a sham. But my eyes can’t take it anymore. The tears need to come out. My eyes need to be refreshed with a new original perspective. One that’s honest with itself and to everyone around. Maybe that’s why babies are so innocent. They do cry a lot. All the time.

I can’t.

At all.

I just can’t.

a beautiful language

that innocent but confused face,
with those dreamy pair of eyes,
the way they stared with such grace,
of all the things i felt like in haze,
no, they couldn’t have lied.

the deep blue was in a hurry,
but how could i let it run?
her eyes had their own vocabulary,
such magic, it made mine blurry,
what a beautiful language to learn.

for she had eyes and chose me,
can you blame those wonders for that?
even now, when she looks back and sees,
the stars feel so ready to flee,
just don’t blame her, will you, for that.