Manuscript of 5/5/18

I am writing this on the 5th day of May 2018 that I may revisit this manuscript on our latter years—where I supposed, we are all ready to ignite the final flame during the chaos we started.

This is written out of my old playlist, where everything was once in tune, and every memories shared was a catchphrase in a chorus.

Tonight I’ve fallen and I can’t get up, it was all synchronized—at least once. We tried to escape time, and today, I am setting back my foot to that particular point in time we were loudly singing inside a car; banging our deepest desires. This was us; in which we had sought ourselves lost in time, together. Lost in melody, yet in harmony, in sync in a piece of love. I need your loving arms to pick me up, with our tongues kindled with flame. And every night I miss you…

Until we realized that those days were emptied by an unknown pain. We lacked the choice to stay still but formulated our separate time. We tried to scatter ourselves on diverse parts of the date line and vanished into ineffable times. If old habits work, I can just look up and know the stars are holding you tonight. We were all lost, fallen in different chaos yet were screaming the same old pain, love. We were all preyed by love, locked in a faulty place, chained by broken time. We just love, didn’t we? And we condemned each other for the altered versions of love—begging for the thing we believed was stolen. Was it love that’s unruly? Or us?

We were like deviant kids wandering in a demimonde, trying to discover love in a human made hell.

The ties we had built turned to be an easy bait. Thinking we had too much of silenced love? No, we scarce love, excessively that we had less to give. We were much reserved and confused; trying to bind devastated worlds in broken time.

All I could grasp was we were once and would still be adrift. It still got me inside—the deep-rooted sting. Months had passed, which was killed by a cold turmoil, yet I know, it is still glowing. We are still tattooed by wounds and no rag can conceal the realest epitome of agony. Yet, how could it be healed if we already turned our back to its only cure? We found ourselves and are lost in love.

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