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four things.


Like the ocean, I swallow        
                 all of you


There is something about the calling of a name that either cuts like a silver blade or confesses more than what is needed.

The waves were untiring, they drowned every bit of sound. In those few seconds that the waters pulled back, he called me by my one syllable moniker in a way so tender, it’s almost like a song and a question at the same time.

Contrast that to several nights later, when I was back in the purgatory that I sorely missed and I heard my name pronounced not as an invitation but rather a furious interruption to bring all things to a desperate halt. No further explanations were needed, I knew from the way my name stormed off your mouth that you were devoid of any sentiment and it would be impossible to even beg for a hint of understanding.

If you go by your intuition, perhaps I should pay more attention to how my name rolls off your tongue. But because I’m seriously tone deaf, all this time, I mistook the lack of affection in your voice as a consequence of sound waves merely escaping through the cracks of the fortress you built for yourself. When truth was, the gates were down. You were loud and clear in denying me entrance.


Do you want rum?

Instead of the actual poem, let's just say... 
            I want nothing more than sand on my legs.


I want to be the muse, for a change.