OSL:BHYN

When months are passing by like seconds, and in my hand your hand is placed, a smile crosses your face, a simple touch can still make my heart race. When I can see my soul in your eyes, and you see your soul in mine, we realize that a love so deep can and there is no lies inside it, where our only tears shed were happy tears we've cried. I love you as much now as I ever did before. If possible, I may even love you more. More and more. all starting from a feeling we didn't ignore, a feeling of connection we chose to explore. I don't know what it is that you saw in me, what I saw in you was the dopest happiness that can ever be, even more so on the day when you and I became "We." I can still smile and say with love from the deepest heart.  Ps: to be honest, I dont even remember our anniversary day jajaja. Maybe we dont have one. But its okay, Let me choose when, how about September 10th? I loved the date! i dont get why, ...

Nanti kalau Mas jauh, akunya kangen terus gimana.

Amas. I wish I was your first love. Ever.

Yes, they will scribble you in the depth of every corner, they will bury you deep inside their bones, keep your safer than their souls, but wilder than their strands of hair. Yes, you will be a subject that’ll keep them awake for hours at night and make their hearts addicted to your breath. But what did they say about the writers when you leave? It’s nothing special honey, they’ll still immortalise you, bury you in words, squeeze their hearts out, try to sleep in between wiping out memories and crashing down their dreams; try to scratch you away, but you’ll be a red, itching boil for a long, long time and a scar for eternity.  They will empty themselves out in vessels of poetry they’ll shape according to the pieces of you you’ve left in them, piercing like pieces of broken glass. One fine day, they’ll scoop you out and place you carefully on the shelf, among other things that are a little rusty in their gray matter, but never really gone.

Am not a writer at all, really. 

I loved the curve of his jaw, the whole in his t-shirt, the notes he wrote me, the way his mind worked, the way he moved his hands when he talked. I imagined, then, that I knew him completely.