Bittersweet

There was always a fragile sweetness in your eyes,
In the way they touched me.  
A warmth in your fingertips that buzzed electricity,  
And dazzled in my soul like a fire  
From a simple tea candle,  
That caught the wide-eyes,  
Of quiet, childhood wonder.  
  
It was those moments in sacred subway lights,  
In the hollow, desolate tunnels that carved out  
Caverns of our deepest, darkest vulnerabilities  
Without waking up the restless people  
Of 8 hour jobs  
And mediocre lives.  
   
But even the echo of your warmth,  
Faded casually away  
As the clock struck twelve,  
And the sun spun around so dizzy  
In so many skies.  
   
It was just more convenient,  
To leave both our hearts in midnight secrets  
And messy writing in late-night journal entries,  
Instead.  
   
The clock kept ticking like it always did,  
But the subway never greeted us on time  
Like it would before.  
   
In and out,  
In and out,  
Up and down,  
And all around,  
Then back again,  
   
We passed each other  
Without one bother.  
   
Yes,  
The clock kept ticking like it always did  
But in halls of blurred, busy faces  
And the antsy claustrophobia of  
Escalators that could never move faster,  
There never came a tunnel that could grant a wish    
To a lost child shyly peeking around corners  
Anytime soon.  
   
Two lost souls,  
They were just too blinded  
In the fluorescent lights of 9am classes  
And the long lines of caffeinated headaches  
Gathering just a little too close  
To the front of the campus Starbucks.  
   
“I apologize my sweet one,  
If you wanted to read me a bedtime story.  
   
I just don’t have the time right now,  
Maybe tomorrow,  
Okay?”  
   
Let me spoil the ending for you,  
In the cruel necessity of convenience.  
   
Never did they reach a sacred mystery  
In hopeless mysticality  
Of street lamps and subways  
With husky voices whispering to each other  
Under a universe of stars  
That crystallized in night skies.  
   
And for my proof,  
Here is an excerpt,  
Of the very last moments of a dream:  
   
...  
   
“I just don’t think I’m ready for this right now”  
   
…  
   
“But, I still find that you’re someone I wanna open up to”  
   
…  
   
“So can we…  
   
Still be friends?”  
   
…  
   
Tragic, isn’t it?  
   
But of course,  
   
It’s always more convenient,  
Not to mention it again.