Let go

Because in the midst of nostalgia, you'll realise that nothing ever last, nothing has ever lasted and nothing ever will. Some things, they say, will never be the same. The constant is, in fact, in its change. We will move from places to places, and what remained will only be a memory. Sometimes we will leave, sometimes we are left. And that persistent memories are but fragments of our ideal longing, no longer real and substantial. 

But you know, it was real then.  

Tuesday

I said, I said, don't bother me, 

with your presence- how can I suppress a flutter? 

with your voice- do let the throbbing of my pulse subside! 

with your smile- they say I almost turned scarlet. 

I said, I said, don't bother me. 

How could I be so superficially drawn? 

As if I was still young to still foolishly indulge! 

But your hand-oh- my thoughts are still in broken fragments. 

I walked with a dream and wish I had not.

It was bliss, and then a torture
to have been envisioned with gold, diamond and silver
yet, to watch them, sense could not help but waver
for even rationality would convert to insanity to withstand such an allure.

"I only have 6 months more," and to endure
it in self-pity, in so clumsy a manner
because in the end what does it matter?
If only! If only! But what does time not cure?

What defines you? A waking dream,
a snowy summer, the collision of stardust
that marshalled captivity and charm-
the personification of a distant and hazy realm
which inspires the perennial feeling of wanderlust
and dare I say, it is a well-executed disarm.