We were never meant to fly


I tried to be a bird.

To allow the soft brushes of the wind

To caress the feathers under my wing

As soft as the peachy pink surface

Of a newborn babe’s bottom

I imagined to fly over great fields

As ugly, as beautifully dirty brown

As your eyes.

I yearned to feel the rain

Pounding upon my frail body

The way I remember your hands once did

But we were never meant to

Touch upon those blue heavens

And the iridescent, unforgiving

Breathtaking glow of the sun

Burned my feathers, charred my wings

And I fell to the earth like Icarus

Buried miles and miles

Beneath the ugly, dirty brown fields

Like your eyes

Forgetting your hands

“How long has it been since I’ve held your hand?” he murmurs into the darkness of their intimacy. Slowly, carefully, sensually, beginning with the hook of his thumb, each callused finger, one by one, wraps its way around her hands. His hand was not so large as to consume her, but enough to envelop her into the net of safety that she never truly knew in his presence. She marvels at the slow yet steady way he allows each finger to fall to her, the absolute comfort when his last little finger finally settles down into the grooves of her hands.

“They’re so small. I’d forgotten,” he admits, quietly, sheepishly. She hopes he can feel her smile, even if he cannot see, her back pressed against him, his chin resting ever so delicately upon her shoulder. She says nothing, only smiles, and knows he can feel it. For, truly, it had been too long. She knows he had forgotten the curves and nooks of her body that he had once spent hours upon hours memorizing, allowing his confident hand to trail along the skin bared only to him. The feeling of her soft fingers molding into his long, bony ones had been since eradicated from his memory. And yet, here, in this moment, his body seems to remember every bit of it, to relearn it as easily as basic mathematics.

They both gaze at their now intertwined hands for a content moment, marveling in the feel, rememorizing the roughness of each other’s skin, the tenderness of their affections. And, with the slowness that the situation seemed to demand, he pressed his lips gently against her hair, tenderly, fiercely, passionately. The simple movement held a million apologies and a thousand more promises that, if she faced the honesty that she resolutely ran from, she knows he would not keep.

And so she returns the gesture, pressing her lips deeply into the protruding knuckles of the hand now grasping hers desperately. She smiles her sad smile and prays that the tears will not fall and he will never feel the wetness of her cheeks. She simply allows her lips to linger a moment longer and whispers words so quiet she could never allow him to hear them: “I never forgot”, and cried for the moments forever lost.

A Beautiful Mask

There once lived a girl

Who wanted so badly to be happy,

She carved a beautiful mask

Of a great, shining smile,

And sparkling eyes

Right onto her sad, sad face


Thus she lived, with this

Beautiful mask of beautiful smiles

Showing it to the world

And all believed she was truly

The happiest little child on the planet


But no matter how the mask fooled others

It seemed she could not fool her own naïve heart

And often tears would seep out

Of the sparkling eyes

During the dark nights where she sat alone


Then, this girl who once lived,

Decided she could not take it anymore

And even as she ripped the beautiful mask

Away from her sad, sad face

She continued to smile and insist

“I’m happy, I’m so happy”

Until at last, the beautiful mask lay on the floor

And her bloody, happy tear drops

Dripped silently down upon it


                There is such beauty in her tender hesitation. She is so unsure, so new to this world into which she has taken shuffling steps. But it is beautiful. Utterly, mind-blowingly, indescribably beautiful. And he cannot take his eyes away from it. For the mind searches so desperately for even the slightest inkling of beauty in this world of hate, of disease and fights, of murder and evil. And, now, in this moment, he has found it. How can he bare to look away?

                It is the look of pure abandonment, the glint of adoration, the gaze of uncertainty which captures his heart more and more thoroughly within every moment. He reaches up, ever so slowly, as one may approach a frightened animal, and brushes the black strands away from the contrasting pale face. She seems almost to flinch in surprise, but instead a shudder ripples through the entirety of her petite frame. He smiles faintly. Beautiful.

                But even in the abandonment, the adoration, the uncertainty, underneath he could just barely discern the flood of confusion, of pain, and of fear which storms beneath the surface. It may be the tiniest of shuffling steps, but even he knew that she would be taking a plunge from a cliff. Again, ever so slowly, he pressed soft lips gently against the expanse of the forehead. The message and intent was clear in the small movement. She needn’t rush herself. For, even, no, because of this, she was all the more beautiful. There was no other word to describe the wonder before him. So pure, so innocent was the face staring back at him, he knew that no verbose descriptions, no overly scholarly words could do her justice. Simply, beautiful.

                At his soft kiss, she smiled at him. And, ever so slowly, she took his face into her hands, and returned the kiss. Her eyelids fluttered gently as she did so, lashes brushing the soft, pale cheeks below, taking his breath away. She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. And there was no uncertainty. No hesitation. “I love you,” she murmured so quietly, so gently that he knew those were words that would only ever be meant for him. And in her moment of absolute vulnerability, she only became more beautiful to him. Absolutely, iridescently, irrevocably. Beautiful.

Would it be okay

if I admitted a secret?

Would you be offended, if I whispered into the darkness of the night which often joins us, a truth I have held in my heart for quite some time now?

Darling, I love you.

Over the course of these many years, with every argument, every break up, every smile, every moment we spent together, I have always loved you. Sometimes I was in love with you, sometimes I was not. Regardless of that, the fact that I did truly and always will love you will not change.

Is that not a right I have? Do I not have the right, a right granted to me in the mere fact that I have continued to love you while you have failed me, to admit to you that my love for you has never wavered?

So hold me tonight, for one last night, and I’ll pretend that everything is the way it was, that when your arm wraps around me, it isn’t a sad ghost of our past. Hold me tonight, and I will whisper sweet truths into your ears.

I won’t bore you with the details of why and how I came to and still love you. Not only are they intensities that I cannot form into words, they are also irrelevant. For those are things of our past, a past that I know we can never revisit. The chance of us being together, truly being together, is something that has long passed us. This, too, is truth that I hope you can recognize as I have. But, as is my right, for one final night, I will whisper to you how I love you. For, my love, I truly do. As my final goodbye, as my parting gift to you, I will allow you this one truth.

I have never stopped loving you, and I never will. I hope you will hold this to yourself, and we will both finally be able to lay down our hearts. I hope we can now, finally, move on with our own lives.

But, I love you.

When Four Fell

A/N So this is actually based off of the original video by WongFuProductions on Youtube called When Five Fell. I watched it and was completely captivated by the idea that our everyday household objects actually hold this great affectionate protectiveness over us, and thought it’d be interesting to write.

          She’s spent so many hours curled up against me, it’s as if the soft curves of her body fit into mine perfectly. The feeling of her steady breathing as she drifts into sleep is captivating, the shaking of her frame as she laughs forever imprinted into me. But, this time, something is different. Even as she comes towards me, as she sits down, I can feel the familiar warmth of her, the one I have come to cherish, but there’s something else. Her frame is so stiff, I can feel… fear? And then, there’s someone else. I dislike the feeling of this woman. She is erect and proper, too heavy as she sits down in comparison to the body I have become so used to. Words pass between them, between the woman and her. Her close proximity, the feel of her hand as she strokes me absentmindedly, the bliss is suddenly disturbed as she is jarred with shock. What happened? What did the woman say? I feel the detestable figure rise, but she sits there. Sits upon me, unmoving, unresponsive. So slowly I feel her curl into me as she always does, her body sinking down into me comfortably. She simply lays there for a few moments, quiet, emotions unreadable. And I wish I could do so much more, more than just support her with my sturdy legs, more than be a resting point in her hard times. But as she snuggles deeper into me, I feel the tears. They fall endlessly from her face; they drop onto me in her silent grief. Why? Why? My sturdy legs support her, I provide a resting place for her as her frame shakes in a different way than the laughter I treasure. I feel the grief as her body shakes, shakes from unspeakable pain. Please, please, let me do more. Let me hold you and comfort you. But I can do nothing. I feel the helpless rage as more tears fall onto me, as she grabs at me in desperation, in an attempt to hold on to reality. This is me, her powerless, pitiful couch.

            Before me, her life was blind. She went through the motions of her day with those bright, beautiful eyes squinted, unable to look forward. And then she met me. I taught her to see in ways she could never before. As long as I was there for her, she could learn new perspectives, every day the wonders of life would amaze her, the wonders that she could never see before. But lately, things have been blurring again. She spends less and less time with me. It began with the water that would drip onto me, that would blur her vision. But now there are no longer the tears. Those bright eyes that would always look at the world with such eager anticipation, where did they go? They are dead. Dulled and unable to look, unable to look forward. Even with me there, she’s lost everything. Any new perspectives she gained was washed away. She no longer wants to see the world, I’m beginning to think it may disgust her. She’s so utterly repelled by it that… she no longer wants me. Maybe if she takes me away, she can ignore the things she hates, pretend that what has happened has not. I watch silently as she closes herself in, deeper and deeper until she is isolated, untouchable in her world without sight. This is me, her abandoned glasses.

            The precious sound of her laughter, the soft whispers of her voice. I loved her sweet melody, so dear, so valued in my world. Our sweet, sweet conversations I treasured so dearly are fading away. Why doesn’t she speak to me? All I hear now are the harsh, grating sounds of distant people, lecturing her with superficial tones. There are words of comfort spoken, so vague, so shallow. They mean nothing. I hear them as she hears them, meaningless cant that flows mindlessly into her numb brain. I can no longer hear her voice. Where has it gone? Her voice? I wish so badly to hear it, her soft tinkling as she spoke in hushed tones, told stories with vivacity and whispered secrets in our private secrecy. I do hear it, sometimes, her voice. But it’s not her anymore. So dull, so listless. There is no longer a tinkling in her tone, no longer the excited lilt that would always sneak in against her command. So dull. So listless. As if… as if she has died. Please, please don’t die on me. Bring back to me your sweet, dulcet tones. I don’t believe I ever properly cherished every single nuance of your voice as you sighed into my ear, I never cherished them with the intensity that I now long for the past. Can you bring it back to me, that sweet happy voice of yours? But it is not to be. That part of her is dead, gone. It is only a strict monotone, a miserable reflection of times now past. And I may never know why. But she will never be the same again, she will never laugh my laugh, my precious, beloved laugh. This is me, her longing phone.

            I remember the feel of her lips. Absentmindedly, she would place her lips on mine, oh so gently, so deep in thought that she does not even realize she is doing it. I would revel in her kiss, her tender kiss. Lately though? While I could never forget the feel of her precious lips, the memory has grown dim. Instead, they are replaced with salty water even as she attempts so desperately to bite back tears that fall steadily. I sit with her as she pours her thoughts upon the page, attempts to rid of her grief though her writing. But it seems, the tears only fall heavier as she writes on. She used to take such good care of me. But as of late, I grow duller and duller, perhaps as a reflection of her soul. As her hand grips me, I feel the life that used to dance and prance in her every movement fade, dull. The sharp glint of her words are now so listless, so unfeeling. And then she grips me all the harder and writes, I don’t deserve to live. And then I break. There is nothing I can do as she throws me across the room, screaming in agony. She is shattered, shattered beyond repair. And this, this is me. Her broken, useless pencil.