the poetry of ennui.

   today, i want to write something profound and romantic. I've tried every thing, maybe not every thing but every possible thing that is doable and reachable to extract out romantic juices. 

   i want to write something beautiful for you, though not even ones you had written something beautiful or something for me. though you always write your poetry, and you write these poetry not thinking of me but your recollection of somebody's  memory. of a girl who is far from me. very much far from me, of upbringing, of likes, of character and of beauty. and you always write your poetry for her, for her that you adore the most, for her that you adore through binding nature and forming it into a splendid bouquet of art, of words. and you, with your ever secretive admiration, offers these bunch of art to her in secret, in painful loving secret.

   who ever that girl is, she, i painfully think, is the luckiest daughter of a mother can have. for from a great distance, a boy, is loving her and writing poetry for her.

   my love, as i read your poetry, i always dare to think and dream that these are all for me and i was that girl your offering your bouquets to. while i'm reading them, i feel so happy, and after that, it feels like dying. for i know, i always know from the beginning, even if as i am about to read it... it's not for me. :(

   writing these words is not my style in writing. i self-proclaimed to write humorous. 

and though all of these things I'd written is nothing but a tarnished and hardly to be forgotten cliche of unwanted circumstances. i would still like to write them. though it made me sound pathetic and, i hate to say, hopeless. i would still write them for in the first place i have nothing to write now... if it's not you I'm thinking and not for you I'm writing.

   I'm supposed to write something beautiful for you. to make myself more worthy even of your friendship. but i guess the spontaneous flow of words from my head going to my hands and into the screen gave nothing... gave no beauty at all. but just the plain and grotesque evidence of my despair, of the unbearable truth in its blunt nudity.

   i don't know when will i write again a poetry that is worth of your glance or i dare more to say, of your interested pause and your eager reading, your profound understanding, and your secretive smile of likeness, and your seeking for the author and your seeking for the author's friendship... and soon for her love.

   some day i will just know, though i don't know if how will i ever know. if ever i can still come to know. who knows? who knows better? who knows better than me of course, the know-er.

though i hadn't still knew how and when i came to know this feeling i had for you... all are just scribbles of words dangling above my effervescent heaven and i can't seemingly find the thread to knit them all into one serene sky. all are just feelings. or just a vague memory of a happy feeling.

   some day, it might not be too soon, but just wait, just wait with patience and nonchalance. for i'll just come to write for you a poetry so beautifully made that you will be writing for me a poetry with par excellence.