* One Day *

One Day,
Gabriel García Márquez might teeter on the tip of your tongue,
Your legs might become too stiff that walking together in a quite forest would be luxury,
Your wrinkles would proliferate as the memories carve into your beautiful body,
Your illed body would be too clumsy that I have to grab and lay it down on bed every night when I’m at home,
Life will demand us to pay the due and the obstacles would sabotage our happiness.
Or that might be me,
But still,
I will look at you and all the memories will come up and I will smile deeply so intensively recalling all the moments the reasons we fall in love the aroma of your hair the texture of your skin your body hair your existence and I would feel that love is always there and I just can’t stop loving you and I’m still deeply in love with you and all the dreams the fantasies the desire and the hope

If you stay

Journal Entry #3 – Notes on Writing

I sincerely am not even trying to write good poems or proses as a mean to express if any, of my inner self. What I am trying is merely to take note of my thought, my suffering, my existence, and wish that years to come I have a realistic account of what happened to me, at this very moment. I thought about naming this blog “Look what love did to me”, as an honest demonstration of exposure, of myself being able to display the most vulnerable part of me, or a way to process my growth in a therapeutic way. However, I realized it will, as the original intention is to process the lose, one day not about a lost relationship anymore, so I decided to use the name “the fleeting moments” to suggest a possible future focus.

That doesn’t mean, however, this is currently anyhow about self-pity, digital mourning, or public bereaving. 
I just want the words that I wrote precisely reflect the flows of my inner dialog, maybe depressed, or maybe angry or even joyful. I have no idea, as she always said, we will see the story unfold.

* Cemetery *

I imagined, 
With sincerity,
Decomposing quietly under the fine-grained slate.

On which
The letters
That spell melodiously you indelible name were carved with delicacy.

Or maybe
You prefer 
Simply the delightful silence of an aging pine tree;

The one which charmingly witnessed our memorable first treat.

Your withdraw,
Compels me to fill the empty space you left with my flimsy breath.

Somehow if you 
Miss me,
Find me in that graveyard we know near which Cohen was laid carefully.