(you cannot tell anyone about the title)

dear someone, 
whose name rhymes with honesty.

here, i engraved your smile like how i love to remind myself,

about the first day i saw you.

to love you, my fingers are pretty warm without you even touching them.

do you think it's fair?

they call it fate; then i guess it's fair?

beside you, while looking on my pinky finger, 

i really thought i could find the strings they have been talking about but,

someone has been whispering me day and night;

"i love you. don't find shelter without a roof."

but maybe,

i was born stupid enough to talk about feelings and love.

the heaviness of feelings inside since i met you on rainbow motions, 

soft sky blue, snow white but rosy everywhere.

or maybe,

i love you longer than that.

 

it wasn't a coincidence, catching yourself sleep while standing,

made me realize that seeing you happy every day is equal to living my life to the fullest.

now, i am sleepy while thinking what kind of face you make right now.

i want to sleep, and if you're going to take a walk then fall in love with me for a while,

do come. i can make you happy.

i guess,

i will do just right.

(you cannot tell anyone about the title), 131220

a story about patience

there is always something in her lungs,

and sometimes, they are too heavy and weary.

something in her heart too,

they feel like ghosts, they taste bitter,

and haunt her like those stories:

dark times, a castle colored in grey,

fading moonlight, and a willingness to stay.

"would it be okay if i take this heart out? days inside here are way too painful."

"days here start with the sun but, what if i told you, it could tear your heart raw?"

she thinks, maybe that was the first day of wearing our heart on our sleeve, 

only an appropriate name of hopeless wishes.

she thinks, the heart bloom in many kinds of ways.

she thinks it's weird,

because she would never choose to bloom,

while drowning.

(there is always something about loneliness when you are not supposed to feel lonely, and existence feels a little too much for something we never asked for.)

(we never crossed the lines when fate is something we swallow, from the day we cried for the first time.)

but still, she waits.

until days of winter choose to fall into slumber.

until days of spring are hers again.

a story about patience, 121220