I just want to talk sometimes. I want to open up, to bring down the shields I've put up to guard my heart and let you see me. Though I'm not sure what you will see when you look inside me.

I think that maybe this should be enough. Whatever this is. It's comforting to know that someone has a place in his heart for me. That should be enough. So why isn't it? Well maybe I never learnt to be content with half a loaf. I always want it all.

What was this about? Oh yeah, opening up. Where to start? The line. Where do we draw the line. There's always a line, a boundary that shouldn't be crossed. I wanna know whether we are friends. I want us to be.

Some evenings I need a hug to ease the tension of a strenuous day. My teddy bear used to suffice, but since you came back into my life, only you fill that void.

I sometimes hold my phone wondering whether to call or text. Call? No. I won't know what to say when you pick up. So text? No. I can't just burst in when you are trying to move on and say something silly. So instead I open my note pad and type away. Words I want you to read. But when I read them I feel bare, exposed. These are words I know I should chew up.

I often stay up late or startle awake in the middle of the night just to listen to the murmur of my own thoughts. And see my heart seeking out a deep corner to tuck away these feelings.

I wonder whether you think of me. I hope you often remember to miss me.

I want to listen to you unguarded. When you are too carefree to sort out your thoughts. I want be the reason you take a few extra minutes to dress up every morning. I want you to reach out to me even when you have nothing to say. And I want to know what you want. Mostly, I want you to want me more than you can ever have me.

Rekindling the Flame

It has been ages. My apologies for the needless sabbatical. It remains inexcusable.

We should catch up. Mmh, ... where to begin?

This blog now feels like a old flame. A used to be lover who no longer recalls the taste of my kisses. It stings because I can not even tell why we grew apart, what made me leave.

But hey, we're back on. We now have another chance to blow the embers in the hope of rekindling this flame. It is my desire to write my soul out to you this time.

I'm nervous. Will the old tricks still work? See, it never is quite the same. The fire never burns as it used to. Because the firewood is no longer sourced from the same trees, nor the same forest we were accustomed to. And the winds that incite the flame have moved too far south, or too far from south.

Plus the mistrust! Intentions are constantly being weighed. I wish I could swear undying devotion. I want to assure you that I'll be consistent this time. But for now, the most I can promise is that this ride will be worth the while. So let's roll.

Tomb for the words of our scarred love.

I loved him until our throats run dry. Now we must find an empty tomb to bury these shells. Shells of the words whose soul we have used up.

At first, we used words to learn each other. Flirting. We used words to exchange well timed compliments. Small talk. Sometimes simply to comment on the weather. Polite banter. Seductive whispers. We used up all the words.

Then we had to get a room. A room in which to do the things lovers do when left alone. Things that we were both too shy to say out loud. We created our own sign language. We didn't use words, he showed me and I showed him. Our bodies spoke for us.

I do not know at what point our throats opened up again. I cannot remember when the words returned to us. Only that these were alien words. Words whose soul was worn out, rugged. Our words had been warm. They had heated our hearts and inspired late night calls and saucy texts at dawn. Words that taught us to tear away each others clothes like thirsty lovers do. The kind of words that inspire untameable rhythms among lovers. Poetic. Our words were poetry.

Now I stay up late wondering when these alien words came to us. Insolent words. Quarrels and arguments. Where did the whispers said in a silky baritone die? Now the cruelty in his voice, is all I recognize. And the hate and accusations in my voice? How do I quell them? In the place of flirtations and seduction are words that work up storms. Words that clench fists and draw knives. Alien words. Or have we become the aliens?

We are no longer accustomed to mirthful banter. We have used up the soul of all our words. What do lovers say when love has dried up? Who has an empty tomb where the dead words of scarred love must be buried?

Photo credits: https://www.flickr.com/photos/carbonnyc/132922595