The Past

He Sleeps Like New York City

I cringe on his absence as I miss stroking his well-shaved beard. I miss every time I opened my eyes, I can see him sleeping graciously before me as if every sleep means a thousand dime of golds, as if he was New York City that finally has some time to sleep.

He is even more charming in between his fragile ego when he steeps lower than he should, unaware of his own attractiveness. I would like to tell him I think God created him to start jealousy. But I couldn't. And I think he wouldn't believe me, too.

It gets even harder to let go a piece of beauty, even though it wraps in a cold frisky pale porcelain skin, because it is not just a matter of heart but also a matter of eyes and ego to have him as if he is a string of pearls that would look good around my neck.

That the greatest challenge is when the whiskey-breath night screams for a brief phone call that often end up on a messy sheet. Forgetting that we have ended two autumns ago when the first leaves falls on the ground.

He was so beautiful, he won't let myself to catch a breath.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Love More: A Little Too Late

I remember the first time when he asked a question started with do you fancy. We were standing in front of the bus stop as that day for some reason he wanted to walk me to my stop although he lived the opposite direction. As my bus was approaching slowly to a full stop,  suddenly a rainstorm happened in my stomach, it could not be just butterflies. I said yes with a slight shaky voice and agreed to meet him after work tomorrow on a Thursday evening for a drink. Not that I doubted my interest upon him, but more to I knew I was signing myself into trouble only three days away from morning flight calls me home.

By trouble I meant, emotional-trouble. I kept telling myself it was absolutely fine to have a summer fling; although confining a crush into certain term in my opinion just undermined what it actually meant. Daniel was a typical nerd that has this undeniable charm and I was drawn to him. Not just because he was naturally eye-catching with his above average six feet tall height, but he was just funny. Our first interaction was at the office kitchen, as I happened to walk in when he was reading his kindle, waiting for the water to boil. In attempt to avoid awkward silence, I tried to opened up a small talk but as I was a terrible conversation-opener, I had to come up with an awkward topic, "Is that kindle?" I soon regretted that I opened my mouth. But he responded lightly and welcomed with an answer as if we had known each other enough to throw a sarcastic joke, "It is, yeah." He looked down at it, "I'm not the kind of person who reads book because the smell of the pages." I laughed, though it was not funny, but I liked him already.

I thought it was all happening in my head. All the more-than-often accidental glances and occasional love-hate comments during conversation at lunch break. But I was gladly proven wrong that day and the next twenty-four hours never felt so long as if it stretched ten times slower than the actual second to pass. I kept thinking about him with his charming scruffy goofy-look; about London, that unexpectedly had come down to butterflies and mixed feelings; that I sadly did not live in this magical city; and  although summer fling breathes temporary, short-term, even in the least sense, of affection, it somehow still made me agitated.

We agreed to meet after work at the lobby and decided to head straight to Brick Lane. It seems like a casual Thursday where everything could happen. None of us were familiar with the area, we just heard over word of mouth and brief glance over the top deck bus window that it was a great place full with artistry elements. We ended up at this coffee shop called, full stop. Brightly decorated with light colours, not the ones that hurt your eyes but instead lighten up your mood. I knew the decision to go to Brick Lane was perfect. It was just the way I wanted to remember the place, beautiful and full of stories.

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The second pint of India Pale Ale had driven the conversation deeper beyond Shakespeare sonnet and experimental ideas. Question of what is life had gone into a tangent with theatre and life was a performance. Just a little after, I noticed as he was few inches closer, resting his elbows on the small round-shaped table. Everything happened rather fast and almost as if it was scripted and I was part of romantic modern play, he leaned forward at the perfect timing between paused sentence and kissed me.

As I could feel my cheek blushed with the colour of cotton candy, I looked away at anything but his well-shaped face, gentle eyes behind vintage glasses. Again, not that I dislike looking at him, but because the very opposite reason I had to. In the beginning, if this was the summer fling I always imagined would happened, I thought it would be easy and strictly fun just like going to the beach in the summer. But apparently, it felt just as warm and heavy as actual love. That feeling of defeated where someone had finally somehow break down the thick wall you have built to protect yourself and this time you felt bare although you have reminded yourself to stay behind the line.

Without giving too much thought, I gazed at him, “Promise me something.” I said more like a demand instead of a negotiable question.
He waited quietly showing no intention of objection, “Don’t make me fall for you even more in the next two days.”
A smile rose on his face immediately as if he just heard a joke but with a twinge of blush, “That sounds like a half statement.” He then continued, “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.” I wished I knew the answer, but it just made me thought that this soon would end, and I had to leave this city in a matter of hours and the more the idea creeped in to my head, the more I wished everything could last. Daniel seemed to notice the shift on my face as my mind drift away and brought me back to where we were by gracefully landed his lips on mine. There was something about the way he kissed me that just gives me certain rush of comfort.
“Maybe a little less of that,” I said even though my gesture signalled the opposite.
“A little less of what?” He intentionally pretend to not understand as he stroke the palm of my hand, almost saying it’s a little too late don’t you think?

A piece by : Fiya Muiz