The times that we grown through

Nothing has really changed.
Fifteen years has passed, and you still likes your noodles with ketchup,
I still complain every time, for wasting your money to buy me flowers, which could’ve been saved for our errands,
And we’d always love a good fight, reasoning who’s the one who loves more.

I bet you’d still remember the day you learnt white is my favorite color, and not green all along, which upset me and we had two whole weeks of not talking, and you being upset with your unreasonable girlfriend.
We still upset each other a lot, mostly not for ourselves but our little darling now, like which shirt will look nice on him, or which school should we send our darling in.

And I could still remember the way you’d brush both of your palms against your trousers every time, thinking hard for a Mathematical solution.
These days, whenever we quarrelled and I’m feeling down, you’d still brush your hands like how you used to, which is both annoying & quite cute somehow, though I hate to admit.

During the weekends, when your family come over, I still feel nervous, afraid of doing something which makes them unhappy, just like how I cared a lot about your feelings then.
And your family would hug me tightly and tell me how much they love me, not forgetting to do the same to our little darling.
This just feels like what you’d always do to cheer me up whenever I was doubting myself.

And it all started on that Sunday morning, when I was wondering should I hand you the first ever breakfast I made, and you cautiously asking me what makes my dream guy.

The hidden diary

Everything reminds me of the past, precious like the pearl to the shell, corals to the sea, light to the sun, stars to the moon. These days, life is like a tape in a cassette, playing our time backwards.

I think of the number of nights, when we, not sure of what to do when we had so much to say, but never dare. Cos the little kids inside us told us we didn’t deserve someone so perfect. When we finally got over the voice inside us, we would do something, or anything that makes each other feel special, told the world that we are something special. And we would be little kids again, talking and doing nonsense like we were the only lucky aliens in this world, while praying for lots of these moments.

I think of the day I started to see you, feel your presence, and how you made me feel valid. I was beginning of wanting to know more about you, when you try the best, to know more about me, care more about me, and about the ways that would made us feel closer. I think of the day you made me feel completely and perfectly valid.

I think of that evening you struggled to find the right words to say out loud what’s in your mind, and I got clumsy, not sure if I should keep my hands to myself, or hold out for you to reach. I think of how you always let me walk inside the roadway, making sure to ease my guilt of letting you stay at the more dangerous side as you talked casually and joked happily.

I think of how we promised to draw cartoons together, buy each others’clothes, cook for each other, often upsetting each other but would never forget to wipe tears for each other, for the rest of our lives. I think of the last goodbye we never said, somehow waiting for miracles to happen. And I would always wonder what could have been our lives, and how is life after that for you.

Have you met someone better than me? Will I meet someone as good as you?

Answers.

There are many things that are unexplainable. Like how you failed to solve every Algebra no matter how hard you tried your best, and he would always work them out at ease, not forgetting to tease you at the same time.

These days, you still find yourself wondering, what exactly about him, that makes your heart flutter. The way he talks very loudly every time he’s excited, as every strangers look towards him with demeaning gazes? The way he moves clumsily among the sea of people, bumping into another every once in awhile? The way he wears his favourite outfits, which are always too tight for his size now, and fail to carry his “masculinity side” that he’s secretly proud of?

And he’s carrying your books and your heavy backpack, talking noisily about his days and how your future would look like. “Just like a little kid”, watching him jumping here and there, playing with the mimosa, feeling a little bit embarrassed.

And once again, you begin matching the puzzles between him and your dream guy, smiling confusingly and questioning yourself, what exactly happened to you. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see him suddenly rushing to help open the heavy glass doors, for the blind kid opposite the street. That is how you find all your answers that you keep questioning yourself these days.

How we began.

He’s the kind of guy who gets stains on his white shirt, and trips when he walks fast, or in the crowded streets.

It was a Sunday morning, the day you met him. You were smelling muffins, as he walked past you. The sun was shining, for once in a lifetime, summer was coming.

It’s later then, you learnt more about him. Like how he likes his coffee plain, how he has to push his glasses often so they won’t fall down, how he talks noisily when asked about things he’s uncertain of. He grows dandelions in the garden, and fixed the moon in your hollow heart.

And you could still remember the day you both began. You were talking about hopes and dreams, debating on fate and eternity. As you reached to wipe out the stains on his clothes. There was tripping in his words. And when your eyes met him, it was like unwrapping a Christmas gift.

A Misty Morning (Translated from my friend — QingQi’s poem)

You were there, in the mist.

As the many mornings in the old days, white shirt on your body, carrying with you, the crisp air, and the mysterious fog.

You were there, in the mist. Sure as the Sun. Holy as the stars. Nothing will stop you, ever, to move closer to me.

And then you were standing here, before me. Suddenly the Sunlight came out, falling on you.

There was light. Coming from you.

Chopsticks

It was a Wednesday. The day you learnt how to balance the two tiny sticks with your hand, to move them together so that they can hold your favorite food. You didn’t quite remember what food had you picked, or what did it taste like. But you did remember very well, how your mother held your little hands and teach you how to move the sticks nicely. How your father brought the plates near you. And how your grandma clapped her hands, louder than her praise, for your little triumph. Twenty years ago.

And then you started to learn the different ways of using them, in different places, different cuisines, and different occasions. Fifteen years ago. Ten years ago, you started teaching little kids to use them, like how you used to learn when you were little.

It is a Friday, and you had a fight with the man you love, over the dining table. There is a silence, long and unbreakable. You thought it will last for a week, this time. But when your daughter starts to pick your favorite dish all up, His chopsticks block her hands.

“Save some for your mother. She had a very hard day.”

Bubbles

As a kid, I used to blow the bubbles, as big as I can, and watch them float up, one by one, towards the sky, towards freedom.

Like wishes freshly formed, some floated swiftly by them selves. Some chose to catch up with others, some vanished before the next bubble join them.

I used to carefully shape them, like an artist crafting a sculpture. Blowing softly on the pipe, until the bubble came out, one by one, one bigger than the other. And I used to be mesmerized by their dance, how they move gracefully beyond, like little angels returning to Heaven’s home. But there was this irresistible urge inside me, to break the ones too beautiful, to get a taste of victory.

I thought of our stories as the bubbles, too beautiful like a sacred treasure. As always, I cautiously carved out a beautiful fairytale, until it’s too perfect a thing. That was when I popped the bubble, and everything became nothing.

A love letter to heaven

I’ll remember you as a favourite song of yours,

The one about how a man is cared for but free;

I will remember you as the many smiles you’ve put on the strangers,

As you told me once, no other things can replace this treasure;

I will remember you as the gentle wind around me,

The one which will bring aches in my lungs if I breathe in too much,

And the one which will gently stroke my hair as a child, like I’ve been cared…

There are things you wanted to tell me but haven’t,

And there are things you wanted to hide from me but couldn’t,

Know that I won’t blame you for what you did, and what you didn’t,

Because although I don’t know the reasons for all these, I knew for one thing, that all these are the only ways you know how to care for me.

And I’m going to remember you as all the good things in our lives,

Not because I didn’t want to remember you the hard way,

But because all the good memories we’ve had best resemble you.

And I’m going to plant every good deeds I can,

As a way to carry the misses I had, for you.

So now, live your other life as the free man in your favorite song,

And know that you’ll always be cared for, in the greatest way.

First thoughts

I hope that when people name something as “happiness”,
The first thought that comes to us,
Is no longer the fact that we belong to someone great,
But of how we’ve finally belonged to ourselves.

I hope that when people name something as “happiness”,
The first thought that comes to us,
Is not of reaching out for more,
But of celebrating the scarcities we’ve had.

I hope that when people name something as “happiness”,
The first thought that comes to us,
Is not of earning a life free from hurts & harms,
But of how we’ve survived from the cuts & downs.

I hope that when people name something as “happiness”,
The first thought that comes to us,
Is not only for the success we accomplished,
But for that one step backward we might’ve took but didnt, during the hard days.

Momentos

How many silent prayers do we need, for God to get us back, or to take back the day we first met?

How many heartbreak songs do we need, to heal our wounds, or to hurt us more?

How much tears do we need, to remember our joyful past, or to hold on to our painful now?

How much courage do we need, to be with another, or to tolerate life without another?

How many nightmares do we need, to reminisce our death, or to cheer on our rebirth?

How much never minds do we need, to remind ourselves that a fairytale is on its way, or has came to an end?