The Sensitive Plant
By Benny Hsieh Illustrated by Nicole Liao
Once I was startled by your touch
and empowered by your tenderness.
For a mindless kindness it seemed
and a delicate soul I’d seen,
I hence closed my eyes
in hope of a passion lasting
forevermore.
While my uncertain belief is reckless,
such religious wait is more reckless still.
In everything unforgettable remaining:
teary whispers, cunning lies,
and glittered scars cracking in ice,
my patience remained in hush.
And in everything calculated broken,
I again closed my eyes
in hope of a promise unbreakable
forevermore.
Still I stood, shivering in fear.
As time went slow
and progressed in minimum seconds,
I knew you approached in echoes.
Still I stood, shattering in tears.
As moments returned complete
and rushed in ongoing minutes,
I knew you vanished in silence,
and for a vulnerable soul I remained,
I again closed my eyes
in hope of a faith restored
forevermore.
Once more I was deceived by your touch
and bruised by your tenderness.
In a tempted sleep some words are muttered:
“Not all that lock are keys,
and not all that delight are dreams.”
In such realization of cruelty,
I hence opened my eyes
in hope of a miracle repeating
nevermore.
and empowered by your tenderness.
For a mindless kindness it seemed
and a delicate soul I’d seen,
I hence closed my eyes
in hope of a passion lasting
forevermore.
While my uncertain belief is reckless,
such religious wait is more reckless still.
In everything unforgettable remaining:
teary whispers, cunning lies,
and glittered scars cracking in ice,
my patience remained in hush.
And in everything calculated broken,
I again closed my eyes
in hope of a promise unbreakable
forevermore.
Still I stood, shivering in fear.
As time went slow
and progressed in minimum seconds,
I knew you approached in echoes.
Still I stood, shattering in tears.
As moments returned complete
and rushed in ongoing minutes,
I knew you vanished in silence,
and for a vulnerable soul I remained,
I again closed my eyes
in hope of a faith restored
forevermore.
Once more I was deceived by your touch
and bruised by your tenderness.
In a tempted sleep some words are muttered:
“Not all that lock are keys,
and not all that delight are dreams.”
In such realization of cruelty,
I hence opened my eyes
in hope of a miracle repeating
nevermore.
Hero
by Camilla Fong Photos
by Joanna Kosinva & Khachil Simonian (Via Unplash)
“I don’t remember when those cheerful memories of you faded away…”
“Has he ever cleaned this room?” Tim asked the officer. Facing the window stood a cabinet. A highly polished frame was displaced in gleaming glass cabinets. Tim carefully opened the door of the cabinet and took out the photo frame. It was their family photo which little Tim held the hands of his father and mother. Under the frame, something was shuffled when Tim picked up the frame. He stepped forward to find a batch of smeared photos. The surfaces of the photos were yellow and covered with dust. At a closer look, he discovered a batch of photos were taken of a young boy. It was a fine young man sharp and white, but the outlines of images were blurred for some reason. It was novel to Tim since that young man, who seemed about 20 years old in the photos, looked just like Tim, especially in his narrow face and straight nose. However, he had a pair of big eyes, and he was clearly shorter than the strong-built Tim.
“Was it him?” Tim hesitated. It had been a long time since he had met him. Maybe he had simply forgotten his face. With conflicted emotions, Tim felt pain as if his heart was being gnawed away by rats. He himself could not explain why he felt like that. He guessed it was what kept him distant from his father.
He ran his hand over the glass of the frame. The eyes of the young boy in the photo were sparkling with happiness and hope. Those were a pair of bright and lively eyes. The glister spoke of his dreams and sincerity. Tim started to imagine the once innocent heart which believed in the goodwill of the world. That young boy who loved playing acoustic guitar and singing folk songs would laugh, jump, and party for the whole night. That had been the best of times, and indeed it was the golden age of that city, when Chow Yun Fat rose to fame with gangster movies and working hard was still an effective way to succeed. In the next photo, Tim’s father had grown. He stood in the garden behind his own house. It was his first house, and it was the first time he lived in a house made of brick. The difference was that there was a long scar on his father’s face. The pair of eyes had become dull. “The good old days…” Tim mused on his father’s misfortunes.
The early sunset was slanting light through the window. Tim looked into the distance and recalled the story his father had told him when he was little. One day when his grandparents left home for work, Tim’s father wandered aimlessly on the street. At that time, people had large families and many siblings. Children from the working-class were used to being left at home, and parents often expected their older children to take care of the younger ones. The public order of that city was like in the gangster films, and many children were forced to work from a young age to help their families financially. Therefore, no one found it dangerous to leave small children on the street.
Unfortunately, the older sister of Tim’s father went out with her boyfriend that day. Three big street kids found their chance to bully little “Tim.” They surrounded him to poke at his beautiful eyes with a thin branch. His father luckily escaped great harm, but he has left with a scar and did never trust anyone easily after that. That incident stained the life of Tim’s father and cast a cloud on the family since then. Tim felt like he could see the small boy weeping with tear-filled eyes and bleeding freely at the corner of the street.
The picture in front of Tim changed suddenly. In a dark smoky room, little “Tim” had turned to a grown young man. Tim was thrilled by what he saw. The man was tasting his first cigarette with a bunch of hooligans. “Wait…” Tim shouted loud but the picture twisted again.
When Tim finally stood still, he was at a piano bar. There was jazz music, women and beer. Tim walked through the tables to find his father. At that moment, someone rushed by Tim. It was a pregnant lady with a ponytail. With thick eyebrow and long eyes very similar to Tim’s, she climbed over the groups of people and hugged with a man in a stylish jacket. Tim got closer to watch the couples. The light was switched to illuminate the whole bar. A few people dressed like police came to take the man away. Tim watched how he roared at the police. He kicked them and blocked their way, trying to protect the woman. “No, please, stop that!” Tim rushed to hold his father’s hands…
That was actually not the true story, but Tim had to comfort himself. He could not forgive his father if he did not make up stories for him. When Tim put down the frame, he noticed that someone had been watching him from behind. Tim turned around to see an old man. “Hi,” Tim spoke first after a long embarrassing silence. This person with wrinkled skin and crinkly eyes was an old criminal. He widened his eyes to take a good look of the young man in front of the cabinets. This was the first time he had seen his son in many years. “You look like me!” he said in a disbelieving tone. Tim stepped forward to kindly clap him on the shoulder. An old man and a young man reunited after years of misunderstanding. Outside the window, the last evening light was fading away.
“Has he ever cleaned this room?” Tim asked the officer. Facing the window stood a cabinet. A highly polished frame was displaced in gleaming glass cabinets. Tim carefully opened the door of the cabinet and took out the photo frame. It was their family photo which little Tim held the hands of his father and mother. Under the frame, something was shuffled when Tim picked up the frame. He stepped forward to find a batch of smeared photos. The surfaces of the photos were yellow and covered with dust. At a closer look, he discovered a batch of photos were taken of a young boy. It was a fine young man sharp and white, but the outlines of images were blurred for some reason. It was novel to Tim since that young man, who seemed about 20 years old in the photos, looked just like Tim, especially in his narrow face and straight nose. However, he had a pair of big eyes, and he was clearly shorter than the strong-built Tim.
“Was it him?” Tim hesitated. It had been a long time since he had met him. Maybe he had simply forgotten his face. With conflicted emotions, Tim felt pain as if his heart was being gnawed away by rats. He himself could not explain why he felt like that. He guessed it was what kept him distant from his father.
He ran his hand over the glass of the frame. The eyes of the young boy in the photo were sparkling with happiness and hope. Those were a pair of bright and lively eyes. The glister spoke of his dreams and sincerity. Tim started to imagine the once innocent heart which believed in the goodwill of the world. That young boy who loved playing acoustic guitar and singing folk songs would laugh, jump, and party for the whole night. That had been the best of times, and indeed it was the golden age of that city, when Chow Yun Fat rose to fame with gangster movies and working hard was still an effective way to succeed. In the next photo, Tim’s father had grown. He stood in the garden behind his own house. It was his first house, and it was the first time he lived in a house made of brick. The difference was that there was a long scar on his father’s face. The pair of eyes had become dull. “The good old days…” Tim mused on his father’s misfortunes.
The early sunset was slanting light through the window. Tim looked into the distance and recalled the story his father had told him when he was little. One day when his grandparents left home for work, Tim’s father wandered aimlessly on the street. At that time, people had large families and many siblings. Children from the working-class were used to being left at home, and parents often expected their older children to take care of the younger ones. The public order of that city was like in the gangster films, and many children were forced to work from a young age to help their families financially. Therefore, no one found it dangerous to leave small children on the street.
Unfortunately, the older sister of Tim’s father went out with her boyfriend that day. Three big street kids found their chance to bully little “Tim.” They surrounded him to poke at his beautiful eyes with a thin branch. His father luckily escaped great harm, but he has left with a scar and did never trust anyone easily after that. That incident stained the life of Tim’s father and cast a cloud on the family since then. Tim felt like he could see the small boy weeping with tear-filled eyes and bleeding freely at the corner of the street.
The picture in front of Tim changed suddenly. In a dark smoky room, little “Tim” had turned to a grown young man. Tim was thrilled by what he saw. The man was tasting his first cigarette with a bunch of hooligans. “Wait…” Tim shouted loud but the picture twisted again.
When Tim finally stood still, he was at a piano bar. There was jazz music, women and beer. Tim walked through the tables to find his father. At that moment, someone rushed by Tim. It was a pregnant lady with a ponytail. With thick eyebrow and long eyes very similar to Tim’s, she climbed over the groups of people and hugged with a man in a stylish jacket. Tim got closer to watch the couples. The light was switched to illuminate the whole bar. A few people dressed like police came to take the man away. Tim watched how he roared at the police. He kicked them and blocked their way, trying to protect the woman. “No, please, stop that!” Tim rushed to hold his father’s hands…
That was actually not the true story, but Tim had to comfort himself. He could not forgive his father if he did not make up stories for him. When Tim put down the frame, he noticed that someone had been watching him from behind. Tim turned around to see an old man. “Hi,” Tim spoke first after a long embarrassing silence. This person with wrinkled skin and crinkly eyes was an old criminal. He widened his eyes to take a good look of the young man in front of the cabinets. This was the first time he had seen his son in many years. “You look like me!” he said in a disbelieving tone. Tim stepped forward to kindly clap him on the shoulder. An old man and a young man reunited after years of misunderstanding. Outside the window, the last evening light was fading away.
Domesticated
by Leo Bao Illustrated by Ashley Lin
I hate Wesley.
To be the only child living with both my parents in a middle class neighborhood was one of the most boring things in my life, and that’s why I insisted on asking my parents to adopt a dog in order to keep me company. Finally, my mom brought a white Maltese, which caught her eye at the animal shelter. In the beginning, everything seemed to be great when she arrived. Big eyes, curly hair, and four short legs. These cute characteristics made her suddenly the most popular member in our house, and we named her Wesley.
However, Wesley wasn’t friendly to anyone. She would growl when people got close to her. If you touched her, then an injury was inevitable. I received several scars on my arm, and my father even needed a tetanus injection after he tried to hold her. Furthermore, the only food Wesley would eat is raw meat, or she would go crazy if fed something else. Sometimes, she would pretend to attack and torture her food before eating it. She usually chomped the meat first as if it were a real target, then she pierced the flesh with her fangs and tore it off by shaking her head violently. I always associated her with the wolves that I had seen in the zoo when I was little. They wandered along the cage, staring at you with the yellow eyes, being guarded but still wild. Unlike what we imagined, Wesley refused to go for walks with us. She always went out alone when she was allowed to leave the house, and she played with the other dogs. We were glad to see her making new friends at first, but things started to get a little strange. A few weeks later, all the dogs in our neighborhood became aggressive and started to attack people, even their owners. After some kids got seriously injured, the community decided to seek help from the local pound, but the staff didn't believe there was a problem, saying that the dogs just need training. So, the residents were forced to kill or abandon their own pets to stop them from hurting people. Surprisingly, Wesley had never been caught attacking anyone. I once saw her standing near the window, watching people get terrified by dogs, like she’s enjoying the pleasure which fear brings to her. We contacted the animal shelter about sending Wesley back, but only got the reply that they had no room for more dogs currently, so we had to just wait. However, things got worse in the following months.
We started to fear Wesley because of her weird behavior. Mom said sometimes she would wake up in a panic at midnight, with Wesley staring at her in the dark with two glowing eyes. Once Dad found the garage full of animal heads or other body parts. We thought it was someone pranking us, but Dad said he saw blood and feathers on Wesley when he tried to bath her. I never saw these creepy things with my own eyes, but sometimes I would hear some noise in the house. The voice was strange, sounding like a girl whispering through a tiny crack between her lips, “Ashley, Ashley.” I told Mom and Dad, but it seemed like I was the only person hearing that voice. “It’s definitely not Wesley because a dog can’t speak,” I tried to convince myself it was just the wind.
One day I got a call from the animal shelter that said we could send Wesley back. Finally, we could get rid of this creature! I swore I wouldn’t get another pet while I walked back home. Before I opened the door, I noticed that mom’s high heels were scattered over the floor. That’s weird, she always asks us to leave our shoes on the shelf neatly. I opened the door. “Mom? Dad?” No one answered. Heavy breathing came from the darkness. “What’s going on?” I turned on the light in the living room, and all the dogs turned around and looked at me. There was a large group of dogs in the house, and the floor was full of blood and human body parts. Several dogs were biting one arm; the watch on that arm looked like my father’s. What the hell? Am I in a nightmare? I couldn’t think. I tried to move, but my legs were stiff and paralyzed. I could feel liquid running down my pants. Then Wesley turned to me, with my mom’s halfeaten head in her mouth. “Welcome home, Ashley,” she said.
To be the only child living with both my parents in a middle class neighborhood was one of the most boring things in my life, and that’s why I insisted on asking my parents to adopt a dog in order to keep me company. Finally, my mom brought a white Maltese, which caught her eye at the animal shelter. In the beginning, everything seemed to be great when she arrived. Big eyes, curly hair, and four short legs. These cute characteristics made her suddenly the most popular member in our house, and we named her Wesley.
However, Wesley wasn’t friendly to anyone. She would growl when people got close to her. If you touched her, then an injury was inevitable. I received several scars on my arm, and my father even needed a tetanus injection after he tried to hold her. Furthermore, the only food Wesley would eat is raw meat, or she would go crazy if fed something else. Sometimes, she would pretend to attack and torture her food before eating it. She usually chomped the meat first as if it were a real target, then she pierced the flesh with her fangs and tore it off by shaking her head violently. I always associated her with the wolves that I had seen in the zoo when I was little. They wandered along the cage, staring at you with the yellow eyes, being guarded but still wild. Unlike what we imagined, Wesley refused to go for walks with us. She always went out alone when she was allowed to leave the house, and she played with the other dogs. We were glad to see her making new friends at first, but things started to get a little strange. A few weeks later, all the dogs in our neighborhood became aggressive and started to attack people, even their owners. After some kids got seriously injured, the community decided to seek help from the local pound, but the staff didn't believe there was a problem, saying that the dogs just need training. So, the residents were forced to kill or abandon their own pets to stop them from hurting people. Surprisingly, Wesley had never been caught attacking anyone. I once saw her standing near the window, watching people get terrified by dogs, like she’s enjoying the pleasure which fear brings to her. We contacted the animal shelter about sending Wesley back, but only got the reply that they had no room for more dogs currently, so we had to just wait. However, things got worse in the following months.
We started to fear Wesley because of her weird behavior. Mom said sometimes she would wake up in a panic at midnight, with Wesley staring at her in the dark with two glowing eyes. Once Dad found the garage full of animal heads or other body parts. We thought it was someone pranking us, but Dad said he saw blood and feathers on Wesley when he tried to bath her. I never saw these creepy things with my own eyes, but sometimes I would hear some noise in the house. The voice was strange, sounding like a girl whispering through a tiny crack between her lips, “Ashley, Ashley.” I told Mom and Dad, but it seemed like I was the only person hearing that voice. “It’s definitely not Wesley because a dog can’t speak,” I tried to convince myself it was just the wind.
One day I got a call from the animal shelter that said we could send Wesley back. Finally, we could get rid of this creature! I swore I wouldn’t get another pet while I walked back home. Before I opened the door, I noticed that mom’s high heels were scattered over the floor. That’s weird, she always asks us to leave our shoes on the shelf neatly. I opened the door. “Mom? Dad?” No one answered. Heavy breathing came from the darkness. “What’s going on?” I turned on the light in the living room, and all the dogs turned around and looked at me. There was a large group of dogs in the house, and the floor was full of blood and human body parts. Several dogs were biting one arm; the watch on that arm looked like my father’s. What the hell? Am I in a nightmare? I couldn’t think. I tried to move, but my legs were stiff and paralyzed. I could feel liquid running down my pants. Then Wesley turned to me, with my mom’s halfeaten head in her mouth. “Welcome home, Ashley,” she said.
If only the whole world were out of power. That way, we would no longer have any responsibilities, and we would know not what exhaustion is.
I have been very tired because of my life and other things. To be honest, I don’t know what exactly is making me this burned-out. Is it my boring, low-paying, long-working-hours job? Or is it the timeconsuming campus life? Probably, it is my loved ones whom I grow apart from, but our blood prohibits us from hating each other. I cannot remember the last time I heard everything loud and clear.
Anyway, the weather in Taipei can also be a possible suspect. Everything is bathed in the dampness of Taipei. My blazer, iPhone 8, and desk lamp are all soaked with water. If only I could hang all these things up and dry them under the sun.
My lover makes me feel miserable. A while ago, I felt that this relationship had come to its end. I could not do it anymore, so I told him we were done. Although it was my decision to do so, the break-up felt painful. A part of me wants to get back with him, but the rest of me knows completely well the reason why I dumped him. When we made love with the AC on, the beads of sweat on my back would slowly evaporate, and the new ones would continue to pop up; when our lips touched, I felt like the world became a little bit quieter. However, whenever I looked at him across the table, it came to me yet again that something was plugged in our relationship. It couldn't be fixed like calling the plumber to rescue a toilet. I suppose the problem is almost innate, like a plastic straw—you can only suck on one tip at a time. When the drink is coming out from this side of the straw, the other side can only be in charge of sucking in more. The powerlessness of it all frustrates me.
Chances are the reason why I ended this relationship lies in the frustration. My mother used to tell me: “You are the best. I never have to worry about you.” But she is not the same person anymore.
◊
After ending the night shift at work, it is already 2 in the morning. Rain is still pouring in Taipei. Arriving at the bus stop near home, I find the streetlights around my apartment all off. Fear emerges in my heart. I want to distract myself by scrolling on my phone, but the battery level shows only 1% remains. Putting my phone back in my pocket, I quicken my step toward the apartment.
As expected, the power in the apartment is out as well. The light switch is not responding, and the cellphone charger shows me no respect. Since I am indoors now, darkness does not scare me as much anymore. People who are sleeping now, would they know the power’s out? The answer is most likely no. If the blackout happens only around this area, could I be the only one who knows about it? My neighbors may be all sleeping— or at least that is what I believe.
Raindrops keep bouncing off the sheet metal roof, and then they fall to the ground, making different sounds echo around the room. I think of the lover I broke up with recently. Despite our plastic straw type of relationship, to me, he is the only person in this world that means “he” to me. Even if I meet someone else in the future, he will still be the only one with his name, his hands, and his eyes. In this life, in this world, no one can ever be him. No matter what happens, I have no one else but him, and he has nobody else but me. I take out my phone to message him, but right after hitting send, my phone turns all black. It is officially dead, like all the other objects in this room. I wonder if the message got through successfully.
Is the power alright over at his place? Or is his flat having a blackout like mine? We don’t live far away from each other, but neither do we live close by. I sit on the ceramic tile floor, which feels refreshing compared to the damp weather. As I look outside, the rain tumbles down rooftops and windowsills. I imagine the color of the concrete road darkens because of the rain. There are no cars on the street, and no one there, either. I never thought the thrum of rain could be this clear, yet so quiet. I stick out my head to listen closely to the rainy night.
I have been very tired because of my life and other things. To be honest, I don’t know what exactly is making me this burned-out. Is it my boring, low-paying, long-working-hours job? Or is it the timeconsuming campus life? Probably, it is my loved ones whom I grow apart from, but our blood prohibits us from hating each other. I cannot remember the last time I heard everything loud and clear.
Anyway, the weather in Taipei can also be a possible suspect. Everything is bathed in the dampness of Taipei. My blazer, iPhone 8, and desk lamp are all soaked with water. If only I could hang all these things up and dry them under the sun.
My lover makes me feel miserable. A while ago, I felt that this relationship had come to its end. I could not do it anymore, so I told him we were done. Although it was my decision to do so, the break-up felt painful. A part of me wants to get back with him, but the rest of me knows completely well the reason why I dumped him. When we made love with the AC on, the beads of sweat on my back would slowly evaporate, and the new ones would continue to pop up; when our lips touched, I felt like the world became a little bit quieter. However, whenever I looked at him across the table, it came to me yet again that something was plugged in our relationship. It couldn't be fixed like calling the plumber to rescue a toilet. I suppose the problem is almost innate, like a plastic straw—you can only suck on one tip at a time. When the drink is coming out from this side of the straw, the other side can only be in charge of sucking in more. The powerlessness of it all frustrates me.
Chances are the reason why I ended this relationship lies in the frustration. My mother used to tell me: “You are the best. I never have to worry about you.” But she is not the same person anymore.
◊
After ending the night shift at work, it is already 2 in the morning. Rain is still pouring in Taipei. Arriving at the bus stop near home, I find the streetlights around my apartment all off. Fear emerges in my heart. I want to distract myself by scrolling on my phone, but the battery level shows only 1% remains. Putting my phone back in my pocket, I quicken my step toward the apartment.
As expected, the power in the apartment is out as well. The light switch is not responding, and the cellphone charger shows me no respect. Since I am indoors now, darkness does not scare me as much anymore. People who are sleeping now, would they know the power’s out? The answer is most likely no. If the blackout happens only around this area, could I be the only one who knows about it? My neighbors may be all sleeping— or at least that is what I believe.
Raindrops keep bouncing off the sheet metal roof, and then they fall to the ground, making different sounds echo around the room. I think of the lover I broke up with recently. Despite our plastic straw type of relationship, to me, he is the only person in this world that means “he” to me. Even if I meet someone else in the future, he will still be the only one with his name, his hands, and his eyes. In this life, in this world, no one can ever be him. No matter what happens, I have no one else but him, and he has nobody else but me. I take out my phone to message him, but right after hitting send, my phone turns all black. It is officially dead, like all the other objects in this room. I wonder if the message got through successfully.
Is the power alright over at his place? Or is his flat having a blackout like mine? We don’t live far away from each other, but neither do we live close by. I sit on the ceramic tile floor, which feels refreshing compared to the damp weather. As I look outside, the rain tumbles down rooftops and windowsills. I imagine the color of the concrete road darkens because of the rain. There are no cars on the street, and no one there, either. I never thought the thrum of rain could be this clear, yet so quiet. I stick out my head to listen closely to the rainy night.
No Response
By Benny Hsieh
Illustrated by Nicole Liao
Sometimes I feel that talking to you is like dating a vegan vampire
since I have waited forever to be pleasantly tortured by your brutal fangs
only to be returned a careless joking kind of bite.
“I get my protein from nuts,” you innocently excuse,
and this is why you’ve driven me nuts.
No response
No words are written
No sounds are made
No wits are exchanged
No cat videos are sent
No signals are connected
No spoilers are alerted
No secrets are detected
No feelings are shared
No stories are ended,
but no sequels are begun.
Sometimes I feel like my tears are becoming the sea
since I am almost drowned by whatever pouring from my body,
and you happen to be the fish surviving in the deepest part of me.
No response still
No apology is wanted
No disappearance is explained
No rage is calmed
No fear is comforted
No void is filled
No teardrop is wiped
No message is missed
No discomfort is left
No loss is lost,
but no end is found.
Sometimes I feel like you and I belong in this unresolvable paradox
since we can neither deny the existence of each other
in such a puzzling connection
nor recognize which one of us, or the connection itself,
is merely ironic.
Sometimes I even cannot help but wonder
if I can cover a silence so loud
that leaves my fantasy so dark
in one simple finger touch,
but here I am,
waiting again.
Again.
Just a confession.
What do you say?
No response, I see.
since I have waited forever to be pleasantly tortured by your brutal fangs
only to be returned a careless joking kind of bite.
“I get my protein from nuts,” you innocently excuse,
and this is why you’ve driven me nuts.
No response
No words are written
No sounds are made
No wits are exchanged
No cat videos are sent
No signals are connected
No spoilers are alerted
No secrets are detected
No feelings are shared
No stories are ended,
but no sequels are begun.
Sometimes I feel like my tears are becoming the sea
since I am almost drowned by whatever pouring from my body,
and you happen to be the fish surviving in the deepest part of me.
No response still
No apology is wanted
No disappearance is explained
No rage is calmed
No fear is comforted
No void is filled
No teardrop is wiped
No message is missed
No discomfort is left
No loss is lost,
but no end is found.
Sometimes I feel like you and I belong in this unresolvable paradox
since we can neither deny the existence of each other
in such a puzzling connection
nor recognize which one of us, or the connection itself,
is merely ironic.
Sometimes I even cannot help but wonder
if I can cover a silence so loud
that leaves my fantasy so dark
in one simple finger touch,
but here I am,
waiting again.
Again.
Just a confession.
What do you say?
No response, I see.
Sometimes I feel like you and I belong in this unresolvable paradox
since we can neither deny the existence of each other
in such a puzzling connection
nor recognize which one of us, or the connection itself,
is merely ironic.
Sometimes I even cannot help but wonder
if I can cover a silence so loud
that leaves my fantasy so dark
in one simple finger touch,
but here I am,
waiting again.
Again.
Just a confession.
What do you say?
No response, I see.
since we can neither deny the existence of each other
in such a puzzling connection
nor recognize which one of us, or the connection itself,
is merely ironic.
Sometimes I even cannot help but wonder
if I can cover a silence so loud
that leaves my fantasy so dark
in one simple finger touch,
but here I am,
waiting again.
Again.
Just a confession.
What do you say?
No response, I see.