clock /klɒk/


i don’t wear timepieces because i find it pointless to keep track of something that loses all importance once we die. why do we keep glancing at our wrists even when we have nowhere to rush to? my measurement of time comes in memories and fleeting moments. in photos of raised cheekbones and pearly whites. we were both so happy, at least that’s what i thought. the disentanglement of ropes, sadness has kidnapped me. how i wish i could tug on the hands of the time-measuring instrument and go back to the day we first met. like a pendulum, i oscillate back and forth; i alternate between the second and fourth stage of the Kübler-Ross model. the device ticks on and i told myself not to count the instances anymore, it no longer matters if we have shared humid afternoons filled with tangled limbs. the dials have stopped moving since the night you left on a whim.


earnestly /ˈəːnɪstli/


why does it have to be like this? i promise you that everything can be fixed. it is amendable. you say that you love me but you aren’t fighting for me. isn’t love worth fighting for? you can try to push me away. but just because you stop touching a wound, doesn’t mean that it’ll heal immediately. time heals wounds, but scars will always remain. i hope you know that.
i told you that i’m 8 numbers away, hoping that you’ll come back to me one day. i offered you choices hoping that you’d choose me. i offered you choices knowing you never will. sure, you broke me. but right now, you are the only one who can mend me.
i know that you are hurting, but so am i. why must we make things so hard? you say that you don’t want to find out if everything is beyond repair. but why are you so afraid? i took a leap of faith, gave you my entire heart, showered you with love, and you don’t even want to try? the writer in me wants to turn our story into something beautiful, a beautiful memory. but the truth is, this is far from beautiful. i am not going to hide the fact that i am upset. so i am writing to heal.

but baby, if you want to forget everything, at least remember the beginning.
remember the first time you knew —
that you were the one for me and i was the one for you.

yearn /jəːn/


i go to sleep, i wake up. i distract myself by writing; but it’s hard to write when my muse is you. i’ve almost completed the entire book of kafka on the shore. i manage to get a lot of reading done; but at the same time, i also read into a lot of other things. my mind tends to run wild. i thought that if i were to talk less to you, if i were to distance myself, i would stop thinking of you, i would stop missing you. but it only makes me miss you more. i see you in everything, i wonder if it’s the same for you? you appear in random intervals of my day. i miss you. i’m trying though, to miss you less. but i still miss you. when will this dull ache ever go away? when will this distinguished emptiness disappear? i miss you. i will stop playing nonchalant if you were to come back to me. i miss you more than ever, i hope you’re doing fine.