HOMESICK

In many places I could have missed my old self, it's the future. I am changing again, you know, and it's super hard to constantly want to find myself. Dictating the past, wasting present, assuming the future. I've noticed I've been recycling my words from my days of elation because happy words seems to gush out my mouth and less and less suicidal vomit is coming from me. It's the clear skies, I guess, doing their part. Perhaps my home would be a 747, overlooking Aegen one day. Blue, blue, blue, and whites.

I've spent most of my evening stowed under warm blanket, hearing jittery laughs and commotion from the front door of this four walls space. It stirs something good in me, as if to say "No shit, but you could make it if you want to." This is a love letter to the earthquake of my temples, forcibly keeping me from bathing in the Sun today. Keeps me unconscious, reminds me that I do have a dark heart, that's why when I sleep I've got dark dreams and always waking up empty. A taste of happiness now, chalky like silk string of spiderwebs. I'll miss who I am supposed to be, who I am right now and who I was trying to be.

My love, you've been listening to the old songs burnt, I've noticed. Everything that is changing, the words variables, us constant? The piano keys do not change as much as you never did. You, my love, always the one with the elated smiles.

I dialled you up on Tuesday night, though all I'm hearing were past tense of occurence. I miss the chaos that is now. I miss it so much. I wish I loved you better at the moment.

This is also a love letter of the past, tracing the details for changes without shredding the neutralness of a stagnant timeline. And this is a letter of regret and of happiness, to be aged like fine wine, over time.