Because My Sleepless Subconscious is Yearning for You

I attempt

to weave these

empty words in the hope

that someday, somehow you

will bring back the naïve smile

that had me sinking like poor Jack:

weak yet contented over seeing his

Rose for the last glimpse before

he finally gets swallowed by

the depths of icebergs

and loneliness,

yearning.

I had to go

because I thought

you longed for embraces,

soothing warmth, passionate breath

far better than I could offer. But you don’t

have to tell me your sighs; I will own the fault

for assuming that you yearned for the

dashing prince who will wake you

up from your melancholy.

I am an ugly frog,

You see.

I hope that

you realize I am

a Van Gogh, an aberration

in a society of pretensions, perverts

and dogs cowering for measly leftovers.

I do not belong to this ephemeral place;

but you taught me to feel, to love,

to realize there can be ease in

this maddening crowd of

pains and anguish.

You are

the wings of ethereal

beauty that plucked me from

the withering tree of sins and solitude;

you who changed me, showed me there

are things that I cannot fathom, there

are emotions that I cannot help

but feel and accept and

share with others,

with you.

Now

I will not lie

and beg off, pretending

that I did not feel uncontained bliss –

dancing, rioting in the swirling jungle of my

wickedness and narcissism — upon learning

that your wings, those heavenly arcs

that had me eat my words

afterwards, are free

to fly again.

This time

around, I am ready

to wait, wait till you reach my

hand and show me how it feels to fly

with you; even if it takes eternity, if the

Apocalypse gets in the way, till the clichéd orange

fruit grows in an apple tree. This time around, I am

ready to offer my left ear when the Starry

Night begins to weave magic and

remind me of you, my ardor,

my veneration to an

angel like you.