It was in the corner of the second-floor balcony,
facing the road, you could always find me
watching yellowing, sometimes reddening leaves
as I made my escape, growing tired of people.
It was always you who found me.

Sometimes I would listen to you chirping,
or sink deep in our silence.
And I would wonder then and there,
could you really see right through me?
If you could, is it a good or bad thing?

Because you are the only piece of the puzzle that fits,
and for how precious you are I decided
not to let you succumb to my darkness,
the real me, just like how I ruined
the people who came after you.

My heart bled each time I firmly said no,
and up to this day, I still ponder
whether it’d be different for you
if I understood your struggles a little, and stayed.
Was it naivety of the youth, or wisdom of the foreseen?

I didn’t find the answer when I sat across you a decade later,
but at least I knew I was still smitten by the boy I knew when I was 16,
and had let go of the man sitting in front of me.
We grew up, grew old, we were walking the path that
would never cross.

Your first would always be sweet, they said,
yet in my mind, I can feel bitterness seep in.
And I won’t lie how I sometimes wonder
is the memory you have of me,
as grandiose as I have of you?

‘Cause at least, despite the ties unknotted,
I still have this box of memories
wrapped nicely
in my head,
and it’s called
You.