A Fond Memory

This Sunday afternoon, I decided to clean my house and redecorate it. It was long overdue, I’d been putting it off for a month or two now. While cleaning, I happened upon a carton of books.
The books that I fondly read and re-read when I was seventeen. I had a habit of marking intriguing lines, words, quotes, and dialogues, well, I still do. I surfed through a couple of them and began reminiscing. I felt skittish, and for some reason, there were butterflies in my stomach as I recalled the glorious days of awkward teenage years. Of course, I’m exaggerating for effect. But, I sure was a hopeless romantic as I am now and the books I read only enabled the young lover in me. With each book, I reacquainted myself with the memories attached to it. My brain, was flooded with these thoughts, and emotions were on overdrive as I was emptying the carton.

And, there it was, my favorite book, the book responsible for the epic love of a lifetime. The book I fell asleep with, and woke up to, rolled over to the other side of the bed, the book filled with little notes and the initials of two names outlined with a heart, the book I used to quote love letters, the book that you gave me, our book.

I picked up our book as if it were a newborn baby, I stared at the cover for a few minutes and hesitantly opened it. A withered Tulip fell from it, the Tulip you stole from Mrs. Lynn’s garden. It was a late winter evening, and we went to the pier with a bottle of cheap alcohol. We were drunk and dancing under the soft light of the lamppost. Then, like a typical lovesick moment in a book, you kissed me. Funnily enough, I can still feel the taste of the alcohol on your lips. That evening marked the beginning of our epic love. I stuck the Tulip in our book as a souvenir, to secure our memory. Years after, my heart’s fluttering as I relearn the rhythm we danced to that evening. I think, I’ll store the winters where my heart belongs the most to ensure that there will be several years after.

~a.ch// fragments of fond memories// young love

Fragments (2)

he asked me, “ what does home mean to you?” I said, “home is where I can fully feel my overflowing emotions. where there’s no need to dance along a facade and i can truly unwind. home is my favourite orange sweater. home is a feeling of being wrapped around loving arms or sinking into nothingness. home is like the deep refreshing, give you a few disoriented moments after you wake up kind of sleep. home is like the kid on the train with hazel green eyes i make faces at. home is a wagging tail and overjoyed jumps at the sight of me. home is comfort. home is love and warmth. and then I finally told him, silly, home is you and i.”

~a.ch// fragments from a conversation

My Sunshine

I painted this picture of him and I went to bed with it every night after that
We were happy, you know?
Then, one day reality came knocking and with a heavy heart I opened the door,
I fought to keep the reality stranded at the threshold, to protect my lover
Eventually, it fought its way back in,
I tried so hard to save him only to realize later that it was his own demons at the door,
You know how they say, “If you truly love a person, you have to love both their sides, the sun and the moon”
Well, it was the moon ready to take my sunshine away,
I clung to my sunshine like a baby and pleaded with the moon but it didn’t care about my love for him,
The moon overshadowed me and it took my sunshine away,
And all I was left with was a hole in my heart and my bed.


What If

What if i told you
I’m a prisoner to the voices in my head ,
A stolen kiss under the mistletoe,
quick and embracing
A consequence of the darkness floating inside of me,
consuming and terrifying
A madman set free, lost and scarred
Would you still stroke my hair, kiss my face and watch me fall asleep,
What if i told you?

conversation after a breakup

My friend stared at me with questioning eyes when I told her that I was okay. She was hesitant at first, then she diligently rephrased her question and asked, “are you sure that you’re okay? you know you don’t have to pretend around me, right?”
I paused for a moment, and looked at her face, it had been a while since I’d noticed someone else, she was sad, confused, and concerned. Her face at the time reminded me of that summer afternoon, when we were watching ‘Hachi: A dog’s tale’ and she suddenly started sobbing uncontrollably. It went on for about a week and finally stopped after we brought our own Hachi home. So, I knew, she won’t budge till I reassured her.
Then I explained, “I’m okay because he’d been preparing me for this. After a couple of thousands of fights, I began caring less and less. My faith in our relationship shrank like his attention in our conversations. The burning sensation inside my chest simmered as did the love in his actions, kisses, and touch. I couldn’t recognize him anymore, It felt as if I’d been sleeping next to a stranger. I got so lost in watering a dead plant that I forgot to water myself. I grew exhausted from holding on with bleeding hands, so I ultimately gave up. Of course, I still love him and a part of me always will but it’s time I gave the love I have for myself a chance.”
She didn’t ask or say anything after that, we just sat beside each other in silence, watching Sleepless In Seattle.

~a.ch// conversation after a breakup

Fragments (3)

“I don’t like you but I love you”
“Umm why?”
“Well, because I don’t like who I am with you. I’m..different around you. I fear being vulnerable but with you, I just don’t. I’m weak. You know, If you ever break my heart, I’ll spend years mending it, and then bring it back to you to destroy it, all over again.
You’re like the movies I watch, on purpose to cry because otherwise, I don’t allow myself that liberty.
You’re like those words rolling on the tip of my tongue when I’m overwhelmed but, I end up swallowing them instead.
You’re the cigarette I smoke immediately after a breakdown.
You’re the incomplete ending of books that I wish didn’t end.
Do you understand? I don’t like you because you encourage me to reveal versions of myself that I don’t bother acknowledging. But, this is also why I love you. Twisted, isn’t it?

~a.ch// fragments from a conversation


I’ve dreamt this dream a thousand times. Where I’m laid up against you, brushing your skin with the tip of my fingers and gently planting kisses along the way. The sweet taste of your lips, the color of your eyes, the warmth of your body, are etched on my skin and my heart. I remember little details about you like my own, as if your being is intertwined with mine. It’s hard to say if it’s true or just that I’ve dreamt this dream a thousand times.

~a.ch// things I should’ve told you


At times I find myself tangled in the web of my thoughts. Often, I think about what all the broken friendships, pain, trauma, relationships and almost relationships have done to me. I fear they’ve desensitized me, numbed me to the core but then there are days when I feel everything, every emotion deeply and all at once. It’s a cycle, followed one after the other. Every cycle makes it all the more difficult to make true sense of everything. It’s like swimming to the bottom of the deep blue sea, you go in voluntarily. Initially the silence is comforting as is the changing color of the sea until, the silence becomes deafening and the color begins to fade and you run out of breath so you frantically throw your hands towards the little ray of light. You hope that someone will pull you out and save you but you begin to choke and the realization finally hits you that you came too far because of something you loved or at least you thought you did.

~a.ch// fragments of my thoughts

My goddess.

But darling, this is your skin
You’re my goddess,
I worship the scars drawn
all over you,
My drunk self would still
kiss your skin like a child,
You’re my goddess,
Even if your lips run out
of the soft cherries,
And your body is dehydrated
and dry,
I see what you don’t see,
I will love you, water you,
You’re my goddess.

I am a writer.

I am a writer in search of poetry

I am a writer coping with my syndrome

I am a writer with a liberating tattoo on my ankle

I am a writer attempting to finish my previous poetry

I am a writer wide awake at 2:05 am with a heavy heart and black ink

I am a writer with dehydrated lips and a croaky voice

I am a writer sitting in a library with a bottle of sula

I am a writer with broken relationships and average vocabulary

I am a writer that likes blueberry jam in between oat biscuits
Maybe, I am not a writer

Maybe, I am a drunkard with unsettling things to say to you

Maybe, I’ll tickle your spine a little and kiss your earlobe

Maybe, I’ll ask you to come visit me sometime

Maybe, I’ll pour you some scotch and show my paintings to you

Maybe, I’ll sharpen my knife and pluck a few lilies for you
Maybe, I am not a writer

Maybe, I am a drunkard with thoughts of ruining you in the most beautiful ways.