As Long As We Are Not Alone

I'd like to think we are like a cup of tea that soothes each other company briefly. Brewed with luke-warm water, fused in anti-clockwise spin, we'd get each other through the times when we least want to be alone. But I am not yours, nor you are mine.

I'd feel comfort when you rush in. The warmth, taste and scent. But as soon my lips not on yours, as soon my hand lose the grip of your cheek, we are stretched in space and time alongside with ego and pride.

We'd store each other in the cupboard with the long list of names and figures. Untouched. By the time the sky is looking grey or the lights is too bright flashing in rhymes with the sound of fast beat music, I'd crave for you dearly.

I'd crave for you as you'd crave for me — at the fragile hours, when honesty and a little too much touch of whisky are breathing down your neck, trashing your usual ego and pride down the bin. Then it softens mine, too. Then somehow, we are here again, laying to the sound of nothing.

We'd lay in silence, quietly looking at the harm we have caused ourselves. The harm that none of us can see, but there. Like oxygen. And we breathe into it. We cover underneath it, through the shift of season, as we merely seek warmth from each other till the urge stops pouring and sensibility rise above the sun.

Back then, we were once golden. We could have had it all; but we crumbled into ashes too soon. Then I stopped questioning why we couldn't be better than a cup of tea. We'd just lay low in blatant acceptance to settle below the bar, not to be greater than we thought — as long we are not alone.

We are alright. At least, I'd like to tell myself that we are. So I do not need to worry, when I am running out of you, and you have consumed me enough, I will be just fine.