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Highly Choreographed


You've been told not to share the same glass with the sick, but it seems you do not mind locking your lips with mine. With every intent to peer into your soul, I lock my gaze into yours — exchanging subtlety for subtlety, satisfaction for satisfaction.

I have known you for those amber moons which appeared delicate, yet powerful at the same time. Those were the very eyes I've gotten used to, with every tiny complexity taking me to another realm where our spirits enjoin unabashed by the raging calamity of the sea. Hypnotic, but therapeutic. I've dedicated a paragraph for those orbs.

The sandy foam lures our ankles back into the tide; the wind brushes against our skin. In an instant, your arms are wrapped around my chest. I can sense the oxygen filling up your lungs as you breath.

We start with the vague notion that I didn't fell for you the first time I got a grip of your face, there wasn't such thing to begin with. My interests weren't wild but rather controlled.

That summer, I've started having a particular interest to you. I even took the seat beside yours for a chance to introduce myself and to be honest, I'd kill you if you can still recall my first words.

"Hi," I said.
"Hey," you replied.
"I'm Alex and I live five blocks away from yours."
"I know," you let a laugh out of your mouth.


Remember how we used to ride the swing? It sounds childish and absurd if the old lady were to hear it from eyewitnesses. How about the book we've never returned? Or the way you smirk whenever I try to ask you out for a date?

Dear, I've got a couple stories to share, but they wouldn't matter now.

You wouldn't remember anyway.


I opened my eyes to the thought of a possible backlash. I haven't done enough staring.

But I have been seen.