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We begin with words unfiltered, like tea with its dry, crushed leaves, like cigarettes rolled tight between our thumbs and our fingers.

We end with closed spaces, emotions boxed up until they dry up and die. We have come to the bottom, to the butt-end. The tea is bitter now. The smoke has died but the amber burns us.

Our lives have moved on. But we failed to. We failed too. We failed twice, and perhaps a thousand times over.

Speak.

Regrets pile up into a mountain of salt I rubbed on my wounds. You may mock me for this, but your wounds and mine are the same. We are both stuck in a shitload of unspoken thoughts and emotions and one day it will kill us.

Speak. Speak godamnit.

I love you and hate you, as you do too. I know. And I know your anger has spoken enough for both of us, though you will not let me hear it.

One day, when I have drunk until my throat is sandy from the crushed leaves of your anger, and I have smoked all our love to ash, I will let go of the glass, of the butt-end of my love, and crush them with my feet.

The morning after

Three years. Three fucking years and it narrowed down to one night, last night, and I was splitting open like a flower, like a dam, like an open wound that bleeds steadily, steadily and will never turn into scabs. I am fresh, fucking fresh and sad, fucking mad and I do not know why I am here when I want to be some place else, I want to rewind time and press play at last night, 091207 at 20:00 hours, press pause at 21:30 hours and rewind again, and play again, pause again, again and again and again. My soul was alight with fire, with energy like a thousand bulbs bursting at the same time. I do not want to be here. I want to hold on to yesterday night, or move on following where it left me, and where the bloody trail began.

Yesterday I was alive. Yesterday night I was awake and alert, voice soaring loud and screaming until it fucking exploded. I was moving with the music. Moving like it is the reason I live, I breathe.

Today I am hollow, like a corpse. My soul has left me in Stadium Merdeka. I do not know if it will come back.

Tell me if it is okay to have one of your impossible dreams come true, and then cry afterwards?

Tell me where should I draw the line, tell me how should I school my soul so that it stays with me, sober and dull.

Tell me if this is what I (should) want.