Wanting

taken from here

Moments engaged. I remember drip of your sweat in a humid Saturday afternoon.
In a crowded place.
Now about longing in a scene of holding hands and laughter dropping around.
I relinquished your absence.
Was it good anyway?
If seeing you were a constant severe pain, then would keeping your charm harm me the same?
Shattering picture of yours, inside this obscured memory.
I loathe how it erodes my happiness, leave a thick flaky bitterness.
Nonetheless, I can feel a little scrub of wholesome.
Luscious. Still.

We are too happy to get lost, too smart to re-do reckless stuffs, too grown up to act like young adults.
Apart of how dense sweetness it diffuses, it works like saccharine. Too much will hurt the throat.
Sensitivity and rationality do not work.
Love is blind-shit. Love is bull-shit.
Or is it you?


Or is it me wishing too much?