surprise me.

Browsing through the web and looking at some self portraits that a girl made; her photos reminded me of you, the nose being the mnemonic and as I look back, going through the photos of you that I took in my mind, there might be some truth to what I just suspect - that somehow the shape of your nose has changed. You see, it has been years since, and I am not really sure, perhaps this one of those things that just grows on you, and only by looking at photographs can we see that some parts of ourselves have changed, that we have changed, in some subtle way that sometimes we doubt if that change is ever there or drastically if scars are involved.

(Or perhaps the way our eyes look, that perhaps they have changed.)

I love photos, especially when I can hold them, like the way I can hold you if I wanted to; if you wanted me to. And sometimes it's black and white, and all the emotions are there, even if I can't see your nose sometimes in the pictures.

for temporary reprieves and temporary secret places.

Perhaps there is still the matter of beating hearts and the occasional irregularity of blood pressure during certain times of the day, or probably perhaps more during elevated stress situations when certain things are brought to mind. Or that the reclusive shadows during mid afternoons are bookmarks for some earlier time and I keep rereading those pages.

Even as I continue to continue, I lose track of time and in my mind, I know it is still June even if the calendars around town keep saying November is nearly over. We all keep our own illusions, one way or another, and yes, because they are fleeting and the harder you try to hold on to them the faster they fade and the harsher that life fades in after. I think only those who have lost their mind know the secret of holding these illusions together, and forever hold, what we term as the real, at bay. I don't know if June is an illusion, it is very real.

waiting for daybreak.

At 3am in the morning when the visible streets are mostly empty, the trees here in the Fort are lonely, bathed in the pale orange, almost yellow light of lampposts; and only the occasional headlight of a passing vehicle as it washes over them that the green briefly shows, then it's back to tangerine monochrome sadness. Standing still in this early day scene betrays a concealed longing for somewhere as self-possessed as this place at this time or even the closeness of someone; a warmth in this cold, the silent assurance of a clasped hand and the refuge of an embrace.

There is a sense of beauty in this isolation, and always wary of the effect of its strange attraction to that certain part of my soul as there is a chance of losing myself. Solitude is always good lay, and perhaps something that I cannot live without; for in her company the world ceases, I find my space again without the confusions of time and obligations, that there's a meaning to all these recent distractions, a sense to whatever confluence of emotions that I am in. This is a beauty that I have always understood and appreciated, and as the cold of this morning intrudes and fails to make me shiver, I let go of Solitude and come back to this scene of forlorn streets and sodium vapor lamp-loving trees.

There is this one other thing that I have also become aware of in the past years, that in the ebb after Solitude goes away, I start to miss you.

musings.

there are some times when I am near you
when I want to lay my head down on your stomach
during those afternoons
when the sun forgets herself,
and know that if I did, I'd turn and look
at you and
wonder if you'll look at me in silence,
muss my hair and smile.
if you did then
I'll continue on looking
and we'll watch the afternoon
grow older and colder
and we'll stay warm
wrapped in each other
by then.

finding it easy.

going back to yourself,
going back to a seven year old familiarity.
I am strangeness now.
to you.
perhaps.
perhaps.
you're still warm to me.
embrace like pillows during rainshowers
aniseed kisses everytime,
and the beauty
of old frayed sneakers

is making the terrible truth
of being in gray buildings
with windows that never open;
for any wind
to let you feel the reality
of things that we can not see,

more colder.

I saw your eyes.

There. There. Unblinking and staring.
Perhaps not me. Not me.
Then you saw. Then you knew.
Me. Me.
You tried to blink. Perhaps impossible.
So moved. Hid. Tried to blink again.
And struggled to still the tremblings.
I felt. You felt.

Find a way. Find me.
We will be lost. Together.

06:53:55.

I might have gone and almost forgot August, like there was for some reason that August was more than just a blur of emotions and remembrances; and it is only a stray thought, for I count every passing day since sometime last June. It is September now, and I am only waiting for the wind to turn a little more colder and for rains to be more common than things that make me remember you; but I guess, in comparison that would make the rains a rare occurence, even if it fell every day.

For just little while from now, time would come full circle and if there is some significance to that truth, I can only wonder and then breath, and fall to my routine of written sighs. Or I could say that I was just dreaming, though this would mean that I have just woken up, and now will want to fall back to the warmth of sleep again, to will myself to slumber in the hope of catching up with the fading dream. And in that futility, weave my own and make myself warm for some time; even if it gets colder everyday, but you see, there is no reason to stop because then if I can abandon my dream, then it would also be possible to give up on myself.

And also because some things are real however you may want to ignore it. And being real, it will always find a way.