Femur, tibia, scapula, carpals, metacarpals, phalanges, skull, I promised you my bones-your very own calcium-planked ancestor. But that was not enough, no. I was never enough for you.
Maybe love is nothing but a myth, sang to the wifty ears of passers-by as they munch on their to-do lists, missing all the hidden notes in Cupid's score. So they say 'love is blind' without second thoughts. No wonder Cupid renovated his armoury, folding all his notes into arrows so he could drive them straight through our hearts-I was pinned down with two. Both pointing me to your direction. But for once, Cupid's GPS was misplaced. You didn't get the same memo. "He's only using me for target practice." I console myself time and time again. Now time is but an illusion, a flat loop of heartbreaking déjàvus.
You don't get it do you? The hearts which men promise will not always be there to be witnesses to their love. It pales like the skin, like the rest of the organs, in comparison to our bones, which can stand the rusty test of time. The bones, which preach the existence of ancient civilizations, of times as old as the corner stores, yet priceless in value. The bones, which tell of the untamed stories of dinosaurs and extinct species; whispering the episodes of Adam and gossiping about the betrayal of Eve in a mouthful.
If per adventure they dig up my bones a thousand years from now, I bet they will encamp around my grave yard and listen to all the love songs I have been singing tonguelessly about you. Even the termites would halt to mate within my ribs- that's all the pheromone the males ever need for their charm. "The love-making vibe" they will call it. The explorers would wonder why my right index finger keeps its bearing pointed to a particular direction- I never forgot your house address.
I have not broken a single bone in my body. Maybe that's the only thing I'm good at keeping. So when I told you I loved you with all my bones, what I meant to say was that, my love for you will never grow cold. Even on winter days, it will heat itself up to keep warm. Storing water as cactus to keep moist in dry and crippled times, whistling you a lullaby at night and kissing you up in the morning just so it may keep breathing to stay alive.
Maybe you still don't get it; you have become so much acquainted with the warm hugs and speedy hearts they offered in times past. Which they still are offering even now. Honestly, I can't give you the fleet of cars they park in front of your house when they pay a single visit, nor the fancy restaurants they lunch and dine with you in.... Nor the tall lists of affluence, they lavishly drown you in. I can't promise you the world but I can promise you my jaw. I can promise you my ribs and wrists... I can promise you my immortality.
Maybe love is nothing but a myth, sang to the wifty ears of passers-by as they munch on their to-do lists, missing all the hidden notes in Cupid's score. So they say 'love is blind' without second thoughts. No wonder Cupid renovated his armoury, folding all his notes into arrows so he could drive them straight through our hearts-I was pinned down with two. Both pointing me to your direction. But for once, Cupid's GPS was misplaced. You didn't get the same memo. "He's only using me for target practice." I console myself time and time again. Now time is but an illusion, a flat loop of heartbreaking déjàvus.
You don't get it do you? The hearts which men promise will not always be there to be witnesses to their love. It pales like the skin, like the rest of the organs, in comparison to our bones, which can stand the rusty test of time. The bones, which preach the existence of ancient civilizations, of times as old as the corner stores, yet priceless in value. The bones, which tell of the untamed stories of dinosaurs and extinct species; whispering the episodes of Adam and gossiping about the betrayal of Eve in a mouthful.
If per adventure they dig up my bones a thousand years from now, I bet they will encamp around my grave yard and listen to all the love songs I have been singing tonguelessly about you. Even the termites would halt to mate within my ribs- that's all the pheromone the males ever need for their charm. "The love-making vibe" they will call it. The explorers would wonder why my right index finger keeps its bearing pointed to a particular direction- I never forgot your house address.
I have not broken a single bone in my body. Maybe that's the only thing I'm good at keeping. So when I told you I loved you with all my bones, what I meant to say was that, my love for you will never grow cold. Even on winter days, it will heat itself up to keep warm. Storing water as cactus to keep moist in dry and crippled times, whistling you a lullaby at night and kissing you up in the morning just so it may keep breathing to stay alive.
Maybe you still don't get it; you have become so much acquainted with the warm hugs and speedy hearts they offered in times past. Which they still are offering even now. Honestly, I can't give you the fleet of cars they park in front of your house when they pay a single visit, nor the fancy restaurants they lunch and dine with you in.... Nor the tall lists of affluence, they lavishly drown you in. I can't promise you the world but I can promise you my jaw. I can promise you my ribs and wrists... I can promise you my immortality.
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