Rich

It first began as a haze.

Blurry, colorless, barely seeing a light that glimmers in the dark, and then, suddenly you see a rich array of colors. As if someone came in and gave you a paintbrush, and you began to picture the beauty that you never saw.

That was the innocence.

A child, that saw everything that was good and bad, and the innocence that shrouded around it. You remember it as a walk in an old cobblestoned path, holding your daddy’s hand as he took you to a space that filled Autumn leaves and chilly park benches when you sit on them. You’d see the numerous amount of children running aimlessly, catching a ball or two, and you’d think that they were just like you. And you can’t help but admit that those were the best days.

And then suddenly, again, that shroud of great colors and bright allurement becomes a haze once again.

The haze was not blurry, it was almost not a haze at all. They were lines; black and white lines vertically upright and they seemed to go on forever. The colors dissolved into more boring colors, black, red, white, green, yellow. There were lesser brightness, it was a faded wall of colors.

The colors, after a while, did not seem to be important—only the accuracy of the lines the four walls the stretched within a distance.

That was the truth.

You remember being systemized into a school that honed your general intelligence, and the harsh realities that seemed to be in every mouth of the world (dying people, starving people, angry people, corrupted people). The colors did not matter much.

(There was a rumor that as you grow older your heart dies.)

It went on, dull and lasting, but you did not grow tired of it. Working to the bone and spreading out book-read words to colleagues, friends, and one day it just hits you.

The allure of color, you miss it.

And everything stretches out, as insubstancial fragments that are similar to pieces of glass that cling carefully. You see a chance of light, no longer a boring color, but almost like a bright ray across the line of black, white, and gray.

They tell you, in the rumors, that it is called an idea—“And you can’t kill an idea, can’t you?”

And when the idea is free, it is called change. But one light cannot change the gist of everything. It must be rooted, from the very veins of great criticisms and loud insults that you could possibly recieve.

There is, again, another haze that captures the light of it all.

As a child, you saw the world full of colors, and brightness was alluring. As a child, innocence was present in every way.

As the little spritz of light begin to dissolve once more into the dreary grayscale of lines, you do not lose hope. Because there is an element, a belief of that stray piece of light.

You believe, that this is what they call as reality.

Fixated

Going home.

It’s as if you find yourself walking a familiar path, entering old cobbled stones that you used to walk on and you’d lay on the grass, no matter how badly kept they were.

A small portion of your heart is fixated within the small gates, like a small chest concealing great memories. That memories when you walked the halls in tattered whispers or indefeaning yells; the memories wherein you found yourself staring at the place that nurtured (and still nurtures) you. The small house, that wasn’t vaguely big enough, but in all means, big enough the occupy a large part of what you are.

The home, that I miss.

If I could, I would count the several hundred happy days that I created. And the several hundred days that I longed for. Opening doors and providing excellence; governing your wondrous traits and your unexplored beauty. That you have yet to discover—and in fact, they know you would.

Staring at rickety old trees, is a beauty in all things that lasts long. Watching me grow from a young bouncing child—that worries about nothing but the dirt on my soles and the recess on hold—to me, to I. The young battered and matured old mind that warred my to bombs and shotguns and stabs of all sorts. I am me, because you made me.

And here I am, standing at the old stomping place that honed us, before we were the greats.

And I’ll find myself longing for that old cobbled stone path and badly kept field and eerily loud hallways that housed great things.

And you’ll live, knowing that you still belong there.

Home.

365 Days of Blue Skies: Ease of a Stranger

A hazy midnight rave was all I remember; blasting neon lights and the reek of alcohol and sex was such a sight. The movement of bodies seemed to sway at one direction; almost like a wave, an entropic wave filled with sweaty people and jiggling glass that nearly topples.

This was my kind of night.

A night that filled my alcoholic taste to the brim, by myself I drank pints. I only remember a few bottles being shoved in front of me, the bartender urging me to drink more and more until I felt faint—though it never stopped me from gulping. A drunk faze nearly sweeps my eyes and head, but I merely followed it. Tumbling and tumbling after every dancing stranger to find a nice spot.

I was on my fifth or sixth or seventh shot of tequila (I never really kept count), and I remember meeting this man. A tall and slender man that oozed the stench of downed whisky and aftershave. He bought me drink (a long lean glass filled with sparkling scotch), with fingers trailing mine. A brilliantl mouth, as he came equipped with witty comebacks and slurred pickup lines. The next thing I knew was the slow and intimate pepper kisses that gently touches from my cheek to my neck.

After that, everything came out a loud blur.

And I could not remember how I ended up here—a cold bed with a stench of midnight alcohol and furiously pounced on sheets. The midday sun nearly blasting the faultering headache that was to come.

Basking in the afterglow of debauchery, only to see myself naked, deprived, and alone. With only an empty bed and the sunlight streaking the soiled sheets. I found myself confused and conflicted, caressing the empty side and visually thinking of him there. I barely knew his name, I barely saw his face. Then I remember the slurred words and the sudden humping and the need for guilty pleasure. We kissed and we touched, skin to skin and lips to lips. He’d whisper harsh words and tainted yells as he’s feel the sweet pleasure that overcame. The movement of our bodies gasped the bed and made it creak like old furnace. Everything, everything was perfect.

“A perfect fit,” I told myself harshly.

I choked back a sob.

365 Days of Blue Skies: Settlement

The long and winding road delves further away from you, 12.5 KM away from you.

I sighed and wondered, glaring down the empty pathway that lead to nowhere, a dusty fog creeping up as I walked closer to you.

I felt chills as you ghosted you slender fingers above my pale hands; almost there but not quite.

My eyes closed as you laid a faint kiss on the back of my long hand, the lingering touch of your lips still present.

I inhaled the fifteen year old red wine that you loved so much, only to see it being gulped and swallowed after each debauchery. It’s fine, I don’t see you complain.

I figured that the endless nights of bleak stars and blanketed nights only worsened the anxiety.

The stars were even more dull.

I took one last look at your face, cradled with innocence and frowns from time to time, before darkness envelops my vision.

365 Days of Blue Skies: Our Silver Sins

“I think we’re perfect.”

I look up from my book and I see him, a few inches in front of me. “Yeah?”

“And we’re meant to be.”

I chuckle silently, “We sure are.”

He smiles, very, very faint. He grabs the half read glittery and colorfully colored—“Hey!”—and he placed himself on my pajama covered lap. He settles his head on my chest and rests his eyes. I figured that he wouldn’t move any time soon.

“What was that about?”

It was silent for a moment, “Nothin’, I guess I was having an epiphany or something.”

If I could wear a smile right now I would, “Yeah, okay.”

And we settle for the silence, just the rustling air of the summer sun in midday. I stroke his hair from time to time and he strokes my chest very lightly. I found myself in comfort, basking in the glow of intimacy. Just the sheer prevailance of silence and sweet carresses from time to time.

Yes, maybe we are a little perfect.

365 Days of Blue Skies: 12:01AM

I am standing at the base on the east wing side of his house; the midnight air is chilly and I am wearing baby blue track pants and his favorite ombré sweater.

I glance at the barely opened window balcony, and he has not awaken yet.

Throwing pebbles is not an option (I could and I might break the glass), so I went for the easier option; calling him.

I open my old phone (a phone that he teased often, telling me continuosly to buy the new model but I always refuse), and a lockscreen of blue appears. I glance at the digital clock, and it barely touches midnight. “11:58,” I sigh.

I slide my fingers through the small device and click Contacts, with only his name under the Favorites section. I tap to call.

Five rings, I countdesperately. He answers on the sixth ring.

“What?” I note his voice was groggy.

I sighed, embarrassed as I was, “Go outside.”

Thru the phone, I could tell that he had a confused scowl. “What?”

“Just come outside, like right now.”

He cursed audibly, “What the fuck is going on, B—”

“Please.”

He sighes (or was it a silent grumble?), “Fine, fine. Better have a good explanation for this, was just havin’ a good dream.”

I smile cheekily, “Did it involve me?”

And I swear I could feel him smirk across the phone.

Eventually he came out; hair sticking out in several places of his head, a heavily worn tee over a pair of overused old jogging pants, his eyes squinting from the street lights.

He was perfect all the same.

“Hm? There you are!” I look up to see him leaning against the balcony, a joyous smile across his face. “Just what the hell are you doing down there?”

I was very grateful that the ladder placed at the back of his house was light, because sleep was overtaking me already.

I climb up, silently cursing myself for being so slow. When I reach the balcony floor, I look at my wristwatch and punch him lightly.

He laughed heartily, and God, I love that laugh so much. “You wake me up in the middle of the fuckin’ night and you—”

“Happy birthday.”

I looks taken aback, “I—oh. Okay. Thank you, I um—thanks.

“But because you didn’t wake up, I’m late by a minute.”

He laughs again, only this time, he wraps a long arm around me.

“Always such the perfectionist, my baby boy.” He kisses my forehead tenderly.

“Shut up.” I pout, but he kisses it away.

I reach for his forehead (I like kissing his forehead), but I end up with his cheek instead (which is just as good) I kiss it anyway.

And the time is still stuck at 12:01AM.

Aerial Sights

I stood on the shaky stones of a balcony, the very top view I saw. The place pollutes the blinking visible lights because they are various and many. I see the roads filled with elegant and posh cars as they race to hurry home. It is Tuesday night, and I find myself lacking.

I’m quite possibly the (only) idiot wearing a black polyester sweater underneath the sweltering heat of the summer’s eve. I don’t mind — it reminded me of you.

On fragile nights like these, I carefully place myself in a state of lonliness. I sit, secluded and quiet. I don’t wait or hither myself from reality, I just think.

The noise and the unwanted traffic, the city’s boisterous laughter of people shredding the streets in hurried gestures and cars honking their way home; it all seemed very unwanted and grudgingly unbearable.

But the evening’s great blanket of unclean stars and darkness, I saw your innocence. In the blinking blur of lights, I saw your — distant, distant — smile. The fluttery chatter of everyday folk reminded me of your silly laughter.

Oh yes, in the noisy city I saw you.

And the smoky scene and dusty roads made me miss you — more.

In the Summertime

Lazy.

The day is dull and long, the sun is begrudgingly begging for attention. The heat drawls an unwanted attention and I stay in the cold, unmoving. The sunlight draws back reflection along the glassy white curtain, and it’s warm; inviting me to come out and play. I was unwilling and tired, no I will not succumb. And in the sweltering heat, I look at rushing people — because it’s midday and they are in a hurry — and they sweat underneath those polyester blazers and such.

Beep, beep.

“Come outside.”

I shrugged — always one for attention that boy, I swear to God.

Well, alright then.