12 November, 2016
054 Pamphile Lane
Silent Hill, PA 17927
Dearest,
how's it going?
it's been quite six months now since we last exchanged our gestures falling not so surely in the lips of another. like an ambivert hesitant to be reserved, part of me speaks volumes that pine to tell the i-miss-yous in the nuances you're made up ofㅡthe cracks in your voice, your lush, articulate words, your crooked teeth, the sweat in your palm when our hands meet.
when are we going to meet? again?
how's it?
thinking about you makes me feel overly vast each time, as if im hovering your ocean of beautiful secrets selfish enough to agitate me with the mystery that you hide within.
permit me to dive.
allow me to jump in.
let me discover you.
perhaps then we could find out what you're about.
i'll figure you out.
how is?
after all these, i don't know what is...
since we both keep mum about not letting your guards down, i no longer have any idea what is...
real.
or if you still feel.
how?
how to end this thing? this faltering loveㅡand i don't know if it's loveㅡwe bring and thus foolishly cling? the cracks in your voice resonate in me. still. all the while your crooked teeth clasping, grinding, telling me your lush, articulate words i'm fond of listening. my hands are now stuck in the pockets of my three-layered garb shakily pining in its steady clenched fist position, unknowingly longing for our hands to intertwine once more with sweatㅡnervous amidst.
at the end of the day, all is said and done and i still have not heard anything from you, nary a hint. i ponder if you think about me just the same. or at least close, almost.
when all else fails, know that i'm here.
waiting.
yearning.
hoping.
whether eventually you'd ask meㅡ
how's it going?
YOU ARE READING
Come Home
PoetryHe would exhaust every piece of him just to write and write for more. And, if these words won't be able to reach her nor won't they be enough, his words implore nothing but one last request: please... come home. Limning vivid pictures through intric...
