whisperoflov

I don't like you. I like the idea of you. And that's scares me Even more.

You....... a mistake from yesterday.  You know that i'm a fool. I wonder where you are, and I wonder what you do.I still care. You must be happy right? yes, you! The one who knows that extra vanilla coke as my favorite. More than a cup of green tea. Iced caramel latte as my cocaine when I'm staying up late night finishing my fucking economics assignment, making sure all the ledgers are in the right orders, while listening to Hello in acoustic version which is composed by Boyce Avenue. I..................... don't have much to say......... or because i don't know how and what to say............... Wordless. please, come back. my best mistake. and tell me everything about your unexplained goodbye. You owe me.

2:34 AM My first entry in 2018, yikes 2/16 , because it's my special day! Do you know what you're saying? If yes, tell me how you do it. What are the right words and when is the right time to use them? Do you know there are consequences for when we make mistakes? I'm afraid of artists. I don't see how they draw with purpose and paint it with purpose and do it all with such confidence. I can't draw a fucking circle without erasing the whole fucking thing at least ten times. What goes on in your head? How do you see me? In lines and shapes and colors? I think of people like  collections of photographs. Colors i associate with the stories they tell to me. Places i'd like to visit with them. The essence of the songs we listen to, and the weather around the time that i like them best. How does your brain work? Cut it open and show me. Talk to me. I like these kind of things . Give me your theories and ideas and tell me about your worldview. I want

You're too smart for me . I don't know what to do with the stars in your eyes and sometimes your hands move too quickly for me to catch up and we dance a vicious dance, a waltz full of fury and i know it's not you, it's me, and i'm sorry, sorry,sorry. i'm terribly sorry. In my dreams, i'm someone else. Someone who can make you smile with my clever conversation, someone who can read your quirks of your eyebrows, and the way your lips shift slightly in a different way when you mean  to be kind or when you mean to be cruel and lately i can't tell which end of the spectrum i'm on. Please don't tell me you love me, your embrace is a cage to me. I'm awkward , tell me where my hands should go, and is it okay if i play with your hair?  tell me how to finesse the lock on your heart, i mean, you say that i already have the key but i don't, where is it? what is it? tell me : Are you getting sick of me?

I had a dream about him the other day. I still feel its nostalgia now. And it still kinda hurts me. The press of his cheek against mine, the way he smiled underneath dim lights. There was something strange about the whole thing. We'd be in a stuffy room one moment, a massive grass field the next. Telling each other things about ourselves,  all isolated from the world. I'm no fucking savior, but in the dream, i'd rescued him from himself.

There's something unflinchingly shiny about uptown Dubai. Go there, and you'll find out why skyscrapers are called as skyscrapers, you'll see it's all metal and steel, glassy reflections of an endlessly blue sky and palm trees and expensive restaurants and gold plated iphones , unapologetic-ally overpriced and the side walk burns bare feet and it whispers to you of promises of money as it melts the plastic soles on your ratty hand-me-down sneakers with the frayed laces and gum sticking to the vamp of your right shoe. Go in summer , you'll see pale legs everywhere , roasted pink by the hot sun. Male, female , old , young- the sun doesn't discriminate if you're white. it'll turn you all the pale hot pink of a over-boiled and under-seasoned chicken as you stand at the beach with your two piece bikinis and your too tight speedos and spf 50 sunscreen from banana boat. Your camera's blinking away one image after the other so later you can pick and