there’s an innocence to holding hands.
that first brush of the tip of his fingers
against my palm.
the way they glide across it,
aiming for the gaps.
the way his fingers curl,
almost hesitantly,
as if i am delicate,
as if holding me too tightly
will break me.
because he knows,
between us,
holding hands will never be just
about hands touching.
so gently, he continues.
fingers clasping.
breath held.

so much for innocence
and the promise of more to come.

That is How I Met Hope

after a resigned sigh,
she said “you are amazing.
you deserve the universe
and all good things in life.
but you have to realise
that sometimes, what you want
isn’t always what you need.”

and I looked at her.
really looked at her.
seeing the hollowness behind her eyes
for the first time since we’ve met.
my heart squeezed tight.
almost to the point of unbearable pain.
I wanted to ask her,
‘who hurt you so badly
that you started to believe
that you’re unworthy?’

but I don’t.
instead I say,
“i have all I need
in front of me right now.
do you trust me?”

she nods slightly.
what she’s not saying is
that she doesn’t trust herself.

so I assure her,
“leap. and I promise
i will not let you fall.
instead, i will teach you how to fly.”

i have never seen a flower
bloom before my eyes.
but in that moment,
if hope was a flower,
then by God,
does it bloom beautifully
behind her eyes
and her smile.

Write your thoughts in beautiful words
and let the winds carry them to me.
Write your anguish in beautiful words
and let the winds carry them to me.
Write your inspiration in beautiful words
and let the winds carry them to me.
But not your love.
Never your love.
Don’t let words tell me how your lips
will touch mine.
Come to me.
Show me.
Because no composition of words
will ever define how divine
your love tastes on my tongue.


What is Home?

Home is where you’re bra less most of the time.
Home is where it’s okay to keep unwashed dishes
in the kitchen sink. (or until you realise you’ve ran out of dishes to use.)Home is where you walk around buck naked any time you want.
Home is where it’s okay to dismiss the 5 second rule on dropped food,
pick it up, & eat it – without judging eyes.
Home is where it’s totally fine to scratch your butt whenever.
or pick your nose.
Home is where you don’t think twice about wearing your favourite ratty shirt with
holes in them and worry that people will start handing you change.

A Home doesn’t necessarily mean 3 bedrooms, 3 toilets, and 2 baths.
A Home doesn’t have to have all rooms hooked up to a killer sound system.
A Home doesn’t need centralised air conditioning.

Home is where you’re excited to plop on the bed, not because you’re exhausted,
but because pillow talks are an evening event.
Home is where the warmth doesn’t come from a heater, but from cuddles.
Home is where your favourite scents linger in every room, pillows, and sheets.
Home is where every room is decorated with memories on the walls.
Home is where your fingers fit perfectly between the gaps of his.
Home is when you’re beside that person doing absolutely nothing and realise,
“this is the place I’m growing old in. this is my home.”