#22 Our Week

Mondays are for hurried goodbyes and I miss you’s text at 2pm

Tuesdays are for helping you with your tie and sudden calls at 9 cause you just feel like it

Wednesdays are for an impulsive movie date after office hours and large-sized caramel popcorn that I love

Thursdays are for midnight junk food takeaway and messy breakfast

Fridays are for picking me up and dinner at our favorite street-food stall

Saturdays are for bookstore date and coffee shop

And Sundays, Sundays are for barefoot morning in the kitchen and feeling okay with you


—How our week should’ve went

#21 How to Fall in Love With A Writer

  1. You can’t


You can’t just fall in love with a writer,

For you will find yourself turning into letters, crafted into words, crafted into sentence,

Crafted into poems she holds dear to her heart


A writer can’t just fall in love with you,

For she will not fall but instead stays on the ground. With you as the sun she rotates around

With you as the center of her words-filled blank spaces,

Of her joy and all her aches

Of her everything and nothing, all at once.


#20 To the Boy with Band-aids on His Hand


What hurts you?

Silly boy with a laugh as warm as a cup of coffee in the morning

and eyes just as black


Did you fall while you’re playing football?


Or is it another scar you wouldn’t let anyone know where it comes from—but yourself and the walls of your home?


(home, what does that even mean?)


Silly boy with band-aids on his hand,

What is it? Tell me, what hurts you?


And let me,

Let me kiss every scratch

Every cuts

Every wound

Every scars


Every pain,



From your hands

From your knuckles

From your eyes


Silly boy with band-aids on his hand,

What hurts you?


Let me know


I might not heal,

But I promise

I won’t do the same


—F. S