V🌙

Him

I don't think about him much,

But the smell of the childhood oil on his hair that I remember from my grandfather,

The slight taste of betel nut on his lips that made me think of my grandmother,

His soft yet firm hands reminded me of my mother,

The mischeavously innocent smile of his that had the comfort I can't explain.

Everything was so common about him,

His clothes, the way he talked.

He's not the type to be remembered,

His habits too common that I was accustomed to.

Too common to be thought of so often.

Yet, his world was so different than mine.

His relationship with God,

His moments,

His love,

His words.

Then why, can't I forget him?

Why is it not only do I remember him

But sometimes, crave for his familiarity,

His lame jokes, his humble acceptance when I take my jokes too far.

Always being there but not enforcing it as a need but always as a want.

I don't believe in God, I don't believe in powers, I don't believe that feelings can be trusted for more than a fleeting moment.

Yet. Yet, when I feel his warm breath on my neck it reminds me of the little bit of sunshining right after it has rained, the easiness and the slumber it follows it is almost impeccable.

Yet, when he starts singing he reminds me of the old radio in my grandfather's study that taught me to hum the first few songs I ever loved.

Yet, when he holds my hands I remember the time my aunt made me pray and I believed in God.

Yet, when he smiles it reminds me of the first time I felt something for that boy in my class but didn't understand the feelings. Just happy and ticklish and wanted to feel it again.

Yet, when he cooks I just want to play with the utensils like i did when I was a child.

But we've both spent nights crying over being

Neglected by men we have our hearts to.

I swear i was nothing like her,

Until I too started begging to be held just for a minute after long hours of work.

I swore I'm different,

Until I too wore a mask to cover the heartbreak with a smile everyone expected.

I also realise that when Van Gogh was alive, his paintings were never really worth anything, he barely sold one and was usually in pain and poor, just to be a world known artist so long after that every tongue has spelt his name atleast once in their life. When i forget my worth i remind myself of that. That I'm beautiful even if most don't see it, that I'm perfectly imperfect cause each stroke by itself doesn't make sense but it makes me me in the end.

Give me some love to fall for, i can barely feel.