Ever. After.

Back doors, half-drunk alcohol.

Warm, heavy breaths.

They say it is December.

Two strangers and a red caravan.

I thought it never happens, I still do.

But,

when I heard your heart beating in my ears, I realised that the word stranger was for everyone whose soul I had never looked into.

I felt your breath on my lips and I realised, you were the only one who looked back into mine.

Now I know why tracing my lips around you feels like poetry dripping ink.

Now I know why it feels like forever when you laugh with me like a thousand chimes cutting the wind.

I shiver, afraid and hesitant.

Hoping you're not the wind that would try to take the flame by storm just to blow her out.

By the time we’re done, the caravan turns blue, my cheeks a different shade of red.

You cup my face and I look at you as though you are some miracle.

And yes, you are.

You are because miracles are not whims,

Miracle is hope,

Miracle is redemption,

Or just a feeble chance, yet strong enough for one to hold on to.

And I would fall in love with you every time you talk about, YOU.

Every time your misty eyes tell me, the world is not nice any more.

Every time you gift me streetlights and subways and bookmarks,

by lanes, tree tops, whistling trains and alleyways I never knew of,

And they would, before we knew, would become us.

I would fall in love with you every time you hold me and set me free.

And I will come back to you, in your favourite colour.

This is a wretched world and you are my little hope.

Not the light that burns the eyes,

We are moon-lit, just what each of us wish for,

Something, that soothes the soul.