Our Hours

So,
this is not us…

looking through every apartment window and comparing
the warmth of their light
being very fond of each other in a miraculously brief time
dancing on caring feet
wanting to be part of each other’s everyday rituals
rhyming our names with our last names
slipping our fingers under tables
making time with our time
using our hours, like ours.

But, no, this is not us.
This is not ours.

This is not me.

feeling the feelings you have for my feelings
not being interesting cause I’m not sad
feeling unappealing, unsteady and uneasy
speaking to myself unspeakably different
with the insoluble paranoia of losing you
knowing you so well
not knowing how much I know you
hating that you don’t seem to hate me
carrying the anxiety of not being yours
uncertain about being yours
fragile as a paper doll
broken but blooming
with a feet outside my cage
wandering in my mind
minding about your mind
juggling with my inner hell yet with feet on the ground
trying to exile myself from existing in silence
dusting off the ashes from my winter feelings
beating my head against the ground until I crave the freedom
of wanting us...

Yet,

this is me, wanting your hours so I can call them ours.

Photography by Eunice Malo // Rev/Scan: Bengala