𝑷 𝒆 𝒂 𝒓 𝒍

It seems the rich perfume smells have finally spread here. I was never a fan of uncertainty, how it goes beyond your bones and leaves you for nothing. Yet how time changes everything. 
          
          From stealing glances to catching up with your words, always lingering potion of healing blazon— nah, darling! 
          
          Daylight didn’t die, perhaps you didn’t notice. 
          
          Or you were too scared to swallow your ego that you never noticed my retreating figure. And I didn’t look back. 
          
          I couldn’t when I knew I would break, the moment I wouldn’t find you looking straight into my eyes. Exhumation, so elusive crane— so I couldn’t let you—
          
          I couldn’t let you go. 
          
          Perhaps I was just lying to myself, those moments were just as fresh as those freaking sprouts that’s ready to bloom. 
          
          So are the lofty hearts, mortal hearts. 
          
          Tell me, did you just envy getting back together once again? Were thousand moments failed over your bruised cells? And I was just —a blemish blunder— in the stainless sink. 
          
          Let it drown, let it sink, this time I didn’t stop myself from spreading your scattered promises, 
          
          ‘I will never return, until I find you.’
          
          And I let it burn, just like the sky turned grey this time— much like the shade I started to love.

@preciouspearl20 Ceci. Sweet. Sent her that note yesterday. She replies with ❤️ and support. Can't say much beyond that.

Repeat announcement of my poem, "A wayfarer's run down" —
          https://www.wattpad.com/1447861060-q-u-i-d-a-m-a-wayfarer%27s-run-down

pearllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Ooooooooo. A new picture!  Pretty sweet.

Love is something no one can dare. A love no one can describe. A love that’s not maroon dreams but only remains in the kisses of notes. A subtle art of not giving frizzles, oh but - you see, we aren't Romeo Juliet, we aren't Shakespeare, giving tragedy over fate.
          
          So what are we?
          
          Tragedy is more deadliest than tragic lines. You don't cross the lines, only yellow dusk yawns over your figure and you drink on memories, giving memorial services to unknown sea waves, crushing it over and over again.
          
          So what are you?
          
          A silhouette, showering in cameo roles. Not coming in selfies but only hung over portraits, art is art when described by an artist.
          
          But lovers describe art in what way?
          
          Kisses? Hugs? Or affectionate in unsung letters?
          
          Keynote - it's over. They wait for the dawn to take over, they let the night to swing over their shoulder, watching the same moon with no lies. And starts with twinkling states. Nah, this isn't a satire, they play and brush fingers on the piano but never say anything aloud.
          
          So what's me?
          
          A figure with a movable lump, under the fluttering eyelashes. I see the way the night just dies with forlorn waves without saying goodbye. A mind of too many questions, who am I to you, I ask again.

       And here I thought more than enough. Less than more, to keep those thoughts at bay while my fuzzy brain started to frizzle, grizzly bear in the corner. In the window, you can clearly hear hushed whispers // whipped in a bit more clustered way, yea but keep your grip tight, hold tighter, it’s gonna blow away fast, faster than you could ever dream of. Tis’ only the start, it’s just a dream where you’ll be never alive, fragments of imagination, drunk on emotions,
          
          Clip clop chop — cut! cut! 
          
          And here I thought you tempered glass screen, protector for silver glasses. You’re just a shiny gleam flea / kept dreaming about it, how it must be to be in a dragon ball, shooting in the air. You watch it with a lingering silence / a twinkle in the eyes, wiring diagram of circle except here.
          
          You won’t see another flash / snapshots of life are never captured after all.

Hope you're doing well. Just checking on you. You don't have to reply if you don't want to. But sorry, I'm slow in reading Quidam. I don't want to rush and be an irresponsible reader. I hope your health is fine. If anything, you can talk with me. 

“Dad” must be the most beautiful word in this world. 
          
          “Dad” is the place where I can get any comfort. He will protect me no matter what happens, right? 
          
          In my childhood days, he used to bring colourful balloons that used to fly. We watched it in awe. 
          
          In my school days, he used to give me piggyback rides. After all, I was his little girl. My “Dad” is the world’s best man. 
          
          He’s a rainbow in my grey days. He’s my umbrella in my rainforest. He’ll do everything for his little girl, right? 
          
          When I’ll be hurt, he’ll be there to get rid of scars. He’s my dad, after all and I’m his little girl. 
          
          Gone are the days, I’m not little anymore. But I’ll always be little for my dad, right?
          
          In the late afternoon, with a tiring gaze while I was barely passing the day, my fingers automatically stopped at the voice,
          
          “Is he your father?”
          
          “No, he’s my “Dad” — she said without any beat. 
          
          I paused, took a glance at the screen for a good second. Yeah, she’s right. Everyone’s a “Father” but how many of them are “Dad?”
          
          It must take a lifetime to earn that tag. Yeah, she’s lucky that she has a “Dad.”
          
          “Father” gives the blood, “Dad” gives everything. He is always there in the worst, in good, in happiness, in sickness. It’s like he took the vow to protect his little girl just when she entered his world.
          
          Love,
          Dad. 
          
          Only “two words” yet filled with so many emotions. I’m talking about @EvelynHail ’s ONC book. It’s a literary fiction, dealing with the intricacy of relationships. Especially about the said figure.
          
          This book is perfect for teenagers, especially if you want to find out about parental dynamics or the 80’s vibe. It’s so good! I can’t give spoilers. 
          
          Read this masterpiece. https://www.wattpad.com/story/363752924-love-dad-onc-2024-%E2%9C%94%EF%B8%8F
          
          ____________
          
          Adios to the pm feature. I'm gonna miss it.  It gave me so many memories, so many friendships (a tad of argument too)! Feels like the end of an era! 
          
          Perhaps one day we’ll meet again!
          See ya on the other side!

Perhaps in the middle of a swaying ghost town, in the morning when the sun finally reaches its peak point, I will stop walking. 
          
          Til’ then let me walk. 
          
          Let me talk with the walking wind. 
          
          While a furry of blowing bubbles burst in me. I can’t contain the last hues, not until I get back where I used to be. 
          
          But how do you define the concept of nothing in anything?
          
          Some days, I wanna pour my everything in the chasm of rain. With every glitter of rain, it might just wash away everything. Wash away the memorial service that I can’t hold a place in. 
          
          I can’t hold a name that’s not mine in the first place. 
          
          But how do you define splurge in contained places? 
          
          Everytime I try to shut down the box, each time it gives another excuse. Excuse of never letting it open? Excuse of never letting it close? In the end it must return to the way it was never in the first place. 
          
          And what about me? 
          
          Perhaps, I was just a roommate of my permanent place. Dare I think, was it mine in any way? But just like autumn bid adieu before cold winter bites off— it was a wake up call. Finally, I poured a whole bucket of cold water to stop the flames. 
          
          Yet it never stopped. It never stops until the moth catches the fire. 
          
          And I, being the wanderer, went ahead with my talk. 
          
          I walked, I walked til my feet ached to take a breath. I took it, I engulfed the mouthful air to be in those places. 
          
          Those smell, those breeze, flying over my pale face, calming my hazardous beating heart, whispers in a whiskey voice—
          
          “This isn’t the end. It’s not the end.”
          
          And I knew, the flaming will be grilled once again. Just let me walk, let me walk, let me be as me, as Kafka once said—
          
          “It’s just that I belong in the quietest quiet, and that’s what’s right for me.”