“So what if I never love someone that hard again?”

He laughed.

“But that’s the thing about love, isn’t it?”

He paused, and looked at the mirror.

“You will let them get away with murder, even if it’s your own.”
“And the worst part is, she might not even know what she has done to you.”

He pointed at the mirror.

“–Died, along with your heart.”
“And now, your words are following you to your grave.”

He eyed himself on the mirror, and took a quick glance at bottles of wine and stacks of books in his desk beside the him. He grabbed the wine bottle, took a wine glass beside it, took one book titled Faust by Goethe, and sat on the floor, right in front of the mirror.

He looked at the mirror, and whispered, slowly,

“Your heart died. Perished. Finished.”
“You should have done something better.
“Think about it. What if you will never love someone that hard again?”

He put his head between his knees, closed his eyes, and whispered to himself,

“What if I will never love someone that hard again?”

“What if?”





True love does not exist.


Call me a skeptic, but right now, I think the concept of true love trivializes all the human experiences we’ve had and we’ll be having for the sake of cultural romanticism. Give thanks to our fairytales and romantic comedies, because for them, the notion that someone perfect for us exists somewhere out there persists. Perhaps love simply exists in a spectrum of colours, and that my romanticism was an over celebration of things that make myself felt good.

In reality, love is all about how much investment one puts in the relationship, how willing are the people involved to work together with their differences, how both are open and honest with their feelings and thoughts through communication. The other characters become supporting characters in the protagonists’ story, but reality does not revolve around a couple’s love story, it revolves around everyone and all of their stories in one big catastrophic merry-go-round.

Maybe we constantly yearn for perfection and wondrous moments of tenderness and romance to sweep us off our feet– for the person that is ideal and is the utter perfection in order to prevent us from being hurt or disappointed. Well, after all, most of our worlds are, built by expectations, which are not wrong to have, but are not a sturdy basis for structures that will go through fire. And when our expectations fail because they are based on fantasy and are without realistic attempts at reaching those goals and dreams, we get hurt, we fall, and we are broken. We forget that we will get hurt, we will fall, and we will break either way. With, or without love– with, or without any help. As for me? Mine was an example. Mine was just like the cliche saying goes: “some things happened along the way.”.

You see, the notion of true love implies that perfection is in the true love’s countenance, when in reality, love is really just good investment and cooperation– good communication.

So let me take a break from all of this– let me hate the concept of true love. Let me shortly mourn someone’s failure– someone’s inability to hold on. Because it was NOT about perfection. it was NOT about circumstances. But it was all about lack of maturity and reason in times of immaturity and unreasonable fears.

It wasn’t the love that was impure, it was the connection that was broken.





Certain memories of you have dulled. And it’s not because they weren’t special or impactful. You left a crater on my heart, an indent impossible to fully heal. Yes, time does come in and takes up space. It glosses over our exact words, dims my recollection just a bit. I don’t remember the date we broke up. I’m not even sure what shirt I was wearing the last time I kissed you. Maybe it was a black shirt. Yeah, I think it was a black shirt, along with shorts.

But, you see, I can only say think. Because I’m not sure. These days, I don’t study the details like the way I once did. I remember your face, of course. The warmth to your dark-brown eyes. Your short hair. And even after all this distance, your laugh finds me in the most random moments. Even though, honestly, it’s your smile that still fucks me up.

It doesn’t matter how many years it has been, that smile still knocks me over. I see a photo of you and my stomach feels punched. How can someone be so beautiful? So dazzling? God. I don’t know if it’s ever going to fade. It should have by now, right? Yes? No? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know if we still know each other. It’s like we, who were once so in love, are figures from our past, and I’m not even sure the newer versions would even get along.

But, hell, all you have to do is smile at me. Smile. Just smile, and I will forget we ever fell apart. Smile, and I will forget the feeling of my heart and soul being torn apart. Smile, and I will know that you’re a battle worth fighting for.

Smile, and I will be yours all over again.





I still love you.

Even though I know I probably should ignore that. Or even though I know that I probably should not. Every single day, you’re getting further and further away. Literally, and figuratively. Is there something star-crossed about this? I don’t know, Love. I just don’t know. All I know, there’s just this distance between us. Filled with nothingness. Just space.

You see, my brain doesn’t seem to get the memo. It keeps factoring you into future plans. It imagines some moment when timing works out and we’re in the same zip code and there’s no longer a reason to keep us apart. Trust me, I tell it to stop. But it just continues, month after month. It creeps in when I’m trying to do other things and makes it impossible to focus. It’s like you’re a song they overplay on the radio. You’re there. You’re always there. I can act like I’m tired of it. I might even do something like complain about it. Or sometimes, I make jokes– stupid jokes about it. But I always turn off the radio whenever it comes on.

But you’re still somewhere in the back of my mind. You’re still here rooting strong in my heart. You’re still that tune– that one tune that plays inside my head– that one tune that people keeps dancing to, slowly, gently, step by step. Just a glass or two of whiskey later, I’m humming it. That tune. You. I’m singing it in the shower and cursing myself for not being able to get rid of it.

I can’t get rid of you.

Even though I’ve tried. Even though I’ve heard this same damn tune one too many times and I know that it feels I should change the channel. The stupid, cringy lyrics keep coming back to me over and over again:

“Text me and I will text right back. Kiss me, and I’ll kiss you right back. Make a plan for us and I’ll clear all my schedule. The more girls I meet, the more I feel myself coming back to you, oh.”

Maybe my heart is stubborn or masochistic or downright stupid. Maybe, and I hate admitting this, I actually like the idea of being unhappy and letting my feelings for you fester is a symptom of that. Sometimes, happiness without you, feels like a trick more than anything. Without you, it feels pretty damn difficult when your brain is going against you, and deciding that it’s a better idea to instead come up with every possible way that things could go wrong. Without you, it feels like failure. It feels impossible. It feels exhausting, like an undertaking that is impossible to win.

Whatever the case, there’s one thing I know for sure:

I still love you.



“You know you don’t have to do this.”

“Essentially, everyone knows what they have and don’t have to do. They just don’t usually sure about themselves most of the time. I know what I’m doing.”

“But this road part is crucial. You can’t do anything reckless.”

“Am I, now? It’s a beautiful, sad crisis. And I’ve been travelling it since more than a year ago. I went on and on, inherent to human nature. I’ve been doing what I need to do to survive.”

“And how are you?”

“Half-angry, half-sad. I fooled myself to the game of protection. I’m holding on to my ego: well-trained to endure, numb, and distract myself, blinding my emotion. A defense mechanism, to keep my heart at bay.”

“You forget that love and hate are the same emotion, camouflaged in different costumes. You’re growing your hate in the same way you grow your love.”

“They are in two different sides of field. But the opposite is still the same. We call it ignorance. It kills both love and hate. Love, especially.”

“It killed yours?”

“Subtly. Crueler than everything. The trail of her touch that lingered– fired with passion of her skin against mine, was my assailant. Her lips that stole my breath away– that destroyed me, was the instrument of my affliction. But the ignorance – her ignorance, which also helped mine to grow – have been lingering dreadfully in the stillness between who we were. Between what she and I could be.”

“Ignorance. Yes. A murderer. Always a homicide scene. It killed every word inside the brain with points sharper than spearheads and phrasing blunter than cement bricks. The silence is excruciating. It slowly devours hearts.”

“My consciousness is holding it inside me. It stops the killing. It tries to erase the guilt. It holds back more than the verdict of an open and shut murder trial.”

“Maybe it’s been simply misunderstood all this time. Listen closely. Do your heart and mind spoke about it many times before? Does it pain you like it should?”



“Occasionally. From time to time. Once In a while. Sometimes. When I look across the memories that she and I once loved, laughed, and wept in– where I smiled at her and called every moment that we had as our moment. Yes, it was our moment. Her moment. My moment. Now it’s just mine, and mine alone.”

“Think of it. If only people could decide how hurt someone is allowed to be with their behaviour, what kind of world would it be? Or rather, how badly do you want to be hurt? Would you ask for your own, personal torture?”

“Drown someone, and decide how loud they could scream. Stab someone, and decide how much they are allowed to bleed. Set someone on fire, and decide how much of a mess their ashes are allowed to make. Destroy someone, and decide how ruined they are allowed to feel.”

“Crush your heart, break it to pieces, step on it, and?”

“And feel everything. I’d take everything as it is. You don’t let people know about it, mostly because you can’t. And it’s useless. People don’t understand how much they have hurt other people. They can’t. We can’t. Not ever. No human being is empathetic enough to do it.”

“But no matter how much you’ve hurt, you’ll forget it. You’ll heal. You will. She will. Everyone will. No matter how dark the night is, the sun will rise again.”

“And the night will falls down and cast its shroud again eventually. Yes, and no. Yes, I will – or rather, I might – heal. But no, I will not forget about it.”

“Everyone forgets. There will always be things that they push to the back of their head, things that will blur, and died, along with time.”

“It’s been quite some time since I saw her. Maybe I will forget about some things.”

“But not the feelings.”

“Maybe not the feelings. But if ignorance keeps gnawing on the lines between me and her, maybe I will soon forget something. Maybe. Maybe; maybe; maybe.”

“Always be afraid of how our memory works.”

“And it has to come from what I would always see from her face.”

“Lips? Eyes? Nose?”

“Her eyes. I might soon forget the color of that pair of stars that she has.”

“.. And maybe, maybe she will forget mine.”






“There’s no such thing as loving someone too much.”

And I smiled at her. Of course there is, I thought.

I wish she knew how it feels like to have my breath stolen away with her kiss– a kiss that threatened to destroy my heart, mind, body, and soul. To have her as not my cup of tea, but as my absinthe. To have the rest of my world forgotten, all in the blink of her eyes.

To had my heart ripped. To had my galaxies torn down. To had my stars drowned. To had my whole world burned. To make me forget how it was like to fall in love with her, that in the end, all you had– all you realize– all you remembered, was just how much it was going to hurt when you would have to let her go, that you would give anything– anything to keep the fire alive even just for few seconds.

I wish she knew how it feels like to be incapable of unloving her.

.. Silly girl. Of course there is.





“Why do you write?”


Several people would look me in the eye and say those words incredulously. Perhaps they will ask, what made me write in the first place, and what made me enjoy pouring my thought and feelings on the paper.

If only they know, that writing, for me, is the same as hurting myself.

Maybe, maybe when everything that I have ever known were slipping into evanescence– when they were slowly crawling into oblivion, I carved my darkest thoughts and feelings deep into my skin back then. So now, all I have to do is write, and write, and write, and write them all until my red ink bleeds out.

Yes, it hurts. But, maybe it’s the only thing that’s real– the only thing that’s permanent– the only thing that stays– the only thing that’s so brutally honest.

When my happiness was, and still is not.





If my words,
by some miracle,

half as ravishing
as you are,

I would have
your memory

my petty prose
and unrhymed

they are not;

they will
never be;

for art
cannot ever
to the muse’s