You are the town crier that cries wolf. Cursed with undiluted and clamant need for momentum gains - we are all fair game, we are all fake, masked under residual white noise. Surely, through and through, perhaps we are allowed to efface the memory of a blazing indiscretion afterall.

There is this man, whose hand fitted mine perfectly. His nails were bitten short, sunken into the odd shape of crescent. He is a diamond in the rough, obtrusively reticent, marked by the trait of an angry man. Somehow, we are all the original Clementine.

Matchsticks

In this strange mid-autumn night,
peel off my artichoke heart,
I love you, I love you

How did we whole-heartedly agree to half measures?
How many times has love been crystalized into the act of crimes?
as if with such crude guts we shan't laugh at wilted hearts;
as if with such sensibility we can have love gilded;
as if with such,
we can call this love.

Never knew lying betwixt the undeserving attention was, a bunch of motherfucking bullshit.

I often wonder where would that fine point of retribution lies - in between heartaches? amidst that untaught obedience? in broken snippets of lies? or in between your arms, taut and tethered with untasteful praises, can I bare my soul?

that taunting code, of the colour red;
that airless,
love