Toast, Milk and A Poem

How are you?

Has life gotten any better, or do the hills still pull you down until you break your pedal?

I have seen you riding throughout the hills, neglecting the Côte d'Azur that can serve your bliss.

Did the spikes allure you? Was the peak intriguing you? Or were you just sad?

Have your mind swirling around until your calves tensed as the pedals rush off the Col du Tourmalet? 

You and your new bike are taking you off the hills like a plane flying off the shore. Ready to take you off the ground. Allow yourself to feel free for a while.

How are you doing on your own?

Is the wind getting friendlier with the sharp raindrops on your skin? Can you breathe better as the air in Riviera does not pollute your corrupted lungs? 

Thinking of you being free for a while in the elegy of being a prisoner sounds like a sunbeam in the morning. I hope it will be it. I hope you are riding on the hills.

 "I love you."

"At what cost?"

Is the fear if you're growing up with the idea that love is always transactional. 

Thus, you will never understands how it does feel to be loved.

Because the comfort is material,

The empathy is bills,

And the care is paid,

It seems everything comes at a cost, like love is a currency. 

The amount of love given is treated as an investment for the returns that expected to be higher.

And you never understands the feeling of crave for love as you have died to filled the account.

That's where the fear are coming from, because you are prolonged to have nothing in your pocket. 

You have given so much 

So much that you have ran out of it.

The currency haunted your mind until it grows out your poverty over love.

The fear of loving closed out the door because you are afraid to give more than you can do.

As you are now poor and have nothing but the emptiness in yours.

Actually, you shouldn't have to be worry.

You will later understand how love supposed to make you feel rich.

Because it is actually given for free, and there is no currency bounded to make you received more than you ever should.

And you are so much worth to be wealthy because of love, not get starving because of it.

You are an epitome of every fictional characters ever written.

The picnic in the park to the soft hearted fisherman kind of characters.

To the warrior of the princess to the old man love kind of lover.

God must have been so kind to commend me yourself.

And I bet, half of the town glared their green eyes on me on for having a jewel like you.

I wouldn't mind, you know.

Because for the bar I raised high, I still can catch you, as you do to me.

The you was the prize from the war I have been through.

Long way without you.

Now that you caught me, and save me from the battlefield I didn't sign for.

Lift me up to move away from that genre.

God must have been so kind to let me have another script to write.

The comfortable, romance-comedy, on 2AM late.

Although these battle scars might affected the way I act on our movie,

You'd never give up to show me how to act again.

God must have been a kind director, to let us have this movie together.

You may, we may, see us as broken. 

But, I see the gold mend the crack in between, when tears fall off your cheek.

The broken pieces of your heart, glued with silver.

The heart they ripped off, patched with gold-strings. 

And these bullet holes they caused, band-aided with kryptonite.

The life might rub your face off, but you made you self shines.

But do not ever see your self as pieces.

Because you know what yourself turn into.

Because you know you are a whole. 

You just got to dig it deeper.

And burst that diamond light from underneath.

That is when you know what life made you into who you were 

and and who you are right now.

 I miss when things are, usual.

The rushed out morning to the bus stop. Two and three buses passed by and you are glad to wait. The silent crowds, just you and your music played only for you. Each of these ears could listen different sounds that they played. Soft rock, classic violin, blues, a retro guitar classic to the noisy mind thinking about their loved ones, or just crumbling borderline heads.

But they did not matter at all, cause no one heard the scream as the machine run to took us to the destination. 

The kind of morning. 

The kind of morning where you meet different faces everyday in a stertorous bus, to meet the same old faces. The faces that could bring the joy in your life, too happy your entire life will be reminded by them. Or, or maybe, the faces that remarked the worst scars sculpted deep into your heart.

But they did not matter at all, cause no one could ribbed each chests to see what marks left on their hearts.

The mornings that you never asked why, the mornings that when you know you know.

We could never know how good could lasts, but some scars could leave the whole damned to the history.

But now the same music sounds different, and the faces are all just the strangers behind the screen. 

And you can't help to not bury down yourself, 

to another bus ride of nostalgia.