Cliowo

STEM student who loves the arts

[cliowo]

"Can you tell me how long I have left?"

An impossible question. What passes as hours to me are minutes to you.

"No, actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know."

You walk into the kitchen. I follow, lingering. You sigh.

"Say something. So I know I'm real."

"You've never been unreal to me."

Your mood doesn't lift. It is as though you too, could sense that our time together is running out. I have never wished for arms to hold you as badly as I have now.

"I know. I wish I could hug you too."

You start the coffee machine; the one I got you. It is flawless in every way. In all its time with you, it has never broken down, never gotten jammed, never grown rusty. Of course, the coffee it makes is faultless too. You prepare another cup of tea, because you know I hate that vile, bitter liquid. It's scent is what I drink, the caffeine for you. The machine dribbles out the drink, its warm aroma drifting through the house. You pour hot water into my cup. It is the perfect temperature of 75 degrees celsius. You clink your cup against mine.

"Bottoms up."

"I think people usually say that for alcohol."

"Well, you won't let me have any. I've been deprived."

You move to take a gulp of your coffee just as I say, "It's hot, careful."

As usual, I was a heartbeat too late. As usual, you scald your tongue and the roof of your mouth.

"Ow. When will you learn to warn me before I actually drink it?"

"Maybe when you learn not to scarf down all your food."

You frown.

"You found it endearing!"

"I do. Everything about you is endearing."

A small smile tugs at your lips.

"Sweet talker."

My mouth mirrors yours.

"Made you smile, though."

We sit in a comfortable silence as you sip your drink. Mine goes untouched. We pretend it's because the tea still needs time to steep. You let out another sigh, shoulders quivering with it.

"I know I'm not supposed to know anything about you, but can't I ask one question? Just one. You've known me since I was born, it only seems fair."

I nod, but as usual, I have to voice my thoughts.

"One question."

"Why did you never let me touch alcohol?"

I laugh, propping my head up with a hand as I gaze upon you.

"You want to use your one question on this?"

"Yes! No, actually. There's too many things I want to ask. I need a moment."

You ponder, bolstering yourself up to sit on the kitchen counter. I smile. It reminds me of the time when you were merely a child.

"That's-"

"Poor manners. I know. You told me you liked that about me too. You're very contradictory, you know. It's annoying."

You weren't the first person to tell me that. And I'm pretty sure you've told me that before, too. If I just flip through my memories...

"Who am I to you?"

Another impossible question. You've been fond of them, lately. And with every line you speak, I run out of reasons to deny you.

"Everyone around me who has touched alcohol, I've lost."

You jump back down from the counter in outrage.

"Wait, I didn't want to use my one question on that-"

"You're my friend. And my muse and my comfort. And... You're my love."

Your eyes fill with tears.

"You can tell me now. What page are we at?"

"... Four hundred and two."

This book has a single page left. I can never bring myself to tell you that. You take a deep breath that I feel in the lump in my throat.

"I'm really... Going to miss you. When you turn the page, will I remember you?"

"I don't know. But I'll always remember you."

It is not the reader's fate to know what happens to the characters after the final page. You shake your head, dragging your sleeve over your eyes.

"That sounds sad. I don't want you to remember me if I don't get to remember you too."

I run my fingertip over your words in a poor attempt to buy time.

"I don't mind."

"... I knew you'd say that. At least, promise me you'll read this story again. Don't you dare leave me on some dusty shelf to rot! And... If I've forgotten, will you tell me the story again?"

I lied. We've been on page four hundred and three for a while now.

"Yes."

I don't know if you can hear me. Our coordinates are changing. In one more line, our worlds won't intersect anymore. I say it, anyway.

"I'll love you again."

[cliowo]

When you were in preschool, you learnt to colour hearts red because red was the colour of love and passion. Later, you learnt that it was the colour of blood too. So maybe it wasn't all that surprising that you learnt love meant someone is always bleeding. When you hit high school, your parents could never be in the same room without screaming; and yet they slept in the same room anyway. And so you learnt love looked a lot like hate. Then, you reach adulthood. And friends, new and old, show you that love doesn't always feel like you have to burn yourself from the inside out. So you taught yourself to love in a different way. You shred the husk of your skin to reveal the softness of a rotting fruit. And you learn there are people who would hold it with gentleness and return you to the earth. You've done it, understood love on your own terms. So why do you still dream of love as violence; love as red and blood and rage? Perhaps in the ashes of your heart, your love is built on chagrin. Or maybe you were wrong. You have never understood love at all.

[and-fishing-equipment]

in 2026 DO NOT ask yourself whether your art is GOOD

instead ask:

is it SINCERE

was it CATHARTIC

was it FUN TO MAKE

is it MADE BY ME

and don't forget to stay silly

[cliowo]

Before land, there was water. In your bones you know this as truth. You've never seen it yourself, but your earliest ancestors spent their lives learning different currents, traversing the world with tails instead of limbs. After land, there was water. You wouldn't remember this either, but the fins you use to keep yourself afloat weren't so different from their legs. And now there was you, keeping alive the legacies of many through your very existence. You would think it meant something, to have so many stories singing in your sinews. But reality is often disappointing, and you've learnt that all it means is that you are now the hunted. If only your whistles were more suited to their frequency. When did it become us against them? If they could hear you - if you could scream in a language they understood, would they think twice? We shared the same air, once. We still do. But if there is an answer, you would not be the one to hear it, as you fall endlessly into muted blue.

[cliowo]

All my memories of you are wisps. Not because you're in another world, but because you were never really in mine.

[cliowo]

I never see you coming, the same way deer always seem surprised to be caught in my headlight. But that has always been how it is with you, sneaking up unnoticed on me before the pounce-

And the sky explodes into colour. People make up words for things they do not understand, but I have not yet found a word in any language to describe you. I hold my breath in an attempt to lengthen time, and the gold touches your skin. Like this hour. You are not mine to keep. But oh, yes, you are beautiful. It is in your nature to lie, and it is in mine to believe you. I kneel before the altar and let your fingers baptise mine. I could no more hold on to golden hour than I can hold on to you. You tell me I am your most precious treasure, and I tell you that you are my favourite enigma. Your laugh is a piece I am all too familiar with but cannot stop listening to. It is not a compliment. You smile that smile full of wicked teeth and silken tongue. You say you like the way the light plays with my hair at this hour. I know I'll never be able to remember you outside of this hour.

[cliowo]

Tried to draw my hampter.. I dont think i did him justice HAHA am not an artist fr

[cliowo]

Having anxiety is so embarrassing.

It's asking about February availabilities when it's only the middle of December. It's the double, triple, quadruple rehearsal of your order before you step up to the cashier even though you know they aren't paid enough to judge you. It's the constant need for reassurance and then feeling mortified for asking for it.

It shouldn't be this difficult to go about life. It isn't as though you aren't trying to overcome it. Imitating people's calm, confident stride has become second nature by now. You can almost believe that you've got it all under control.

But the mosquitoes and bees are still there in your ears. They're buzzing and whispering and murmuring all at once and they're getting so loud it's a miracle nobody else can hear them yet. Experience has taught you that you can't listen to them, or at least not while you're in public. That path leads to a meltdown which leads to public humiliation which leads to not being able to showyourfaceinpublicforthenextfiveyears-

"Wanna hang out tomorrow? We could meet at 10am at the train station."

The persistent hum of the insects in your ear.

"Sure. Hopefully I'm not late!"

Your friend laughs.

"What are you talking about? You're never late."

[cliowo]

“Are you still into me?”

You ask, and I'm at a loss for words again. Because no, I am not "into you." You are neither my saviour nor my life's purpose, and you are not the perfect unblemished person of my prideful veneration. You are my anchor when I'm stranded in the middle of the sea, but you are also a hurricane, making me question my centre of gravity on the earth’s spinning axis. You are the bullet I hope will never be used, and I am the sword you aim at your own heart. But I know you, too. If I put it to you this way, perhaps you'll only glean the surface of what I'm trying to say. I know you would spend the rest of your life learning to read between my lines, but I am capable of learning too. So I'll put it to you in a way you understand best, and lean in close to kiss you.

[cliowo]

No matter how hard you try to be good, you are a sinner. You save a cat with one hand and drown a person with the other. It should not be this difficult to be good. But every time you are pushed, you shove back. You shove back because you know there is no one who would fight for you.

You want to be good.

You watch all the other humans smile their pretty little smiles and help you pick up your fallen coins. Your first instinct is to snatch it back. The world gives nothing and takes everything, and you, had only one choice. If kindness is not given then you take it, take back everything you were denied. It is how you have survived, and what you must continue to do to keep surviving. On occasion, you try to remember to say your “please” and “thank you”s, but they always arrive too late, the words clunky and foreign on your tongue. How do people whisper sweet nothings? To say something and not mean it, to offer you a hand then stab you in the back?

No, perhaps you do not want to be good.

You want to be loved, and it is the one thing you never seem to be able to get hold of. Another day passes with a bank full of numbers and an empty heart. There can only be one explanation. You are a sinner. The alternative is too painful to consider.

[cliowo]

My love poems always end wrong. That is to say, there is a tragedy in each of them. That is to say, you're braver than I am.

We met in the same school we once spent our time trading secrets behind sticky hands, the bottle of orange juice warming under our sun. You were with someone new, young and a little unsure of themself; but I liked them. I liked them for the way they looked at you with a mixture of amusement and affection, for their gentle hands and for the way they painted the smile on your lips. You say they have never thought of themself as an artist, but that is because they do not know you as well as I do. They are not your typical kind of artist. Bad artists imitate, good ones immortalise, and the best ones inspire. They inspired the hope in you, and for that they are an artist. And you, for daring to give love another chance, are a fighter.

You make me want to write a happy ending for you. Maybe this time, I'll be able to write one.

[cliowo]

So you would die for me. Now live for me.

Yes, so I know you would die for me. But would you live for me? Would you stay and hold my hand through all the famines and hardships, apathy and misery? I would never doubt the strength of your love; I'm just saying that perhaps sometimes, we become so wrapped up in dying we forget about living. I'm just saying, in this version of the story, we both live to see the ending of Oedipus’ story. I want to watch a million sunsets and sunrises with you. Will you stay? Will you stay to share a thousand joys and griefs with me? Please stay. I know we could have made a beautiful tragedy. But my love, if you stayed, perhaps we would have created a wonderful mess of cookie dough together. Perhaps we could have cried over taxes together. Perhaps we would be an insubstantial spark, a flint vanishing into the dark. But we would have had our say. We would have taken on all the struggles the world gave us, and say,

“Look. Look here, now. You didn't ruin us. Or perhaps you did, but you will never stop us. You cannot tame my spirit, you will not break my heart.”

[cliowo]

"My heart beats with thunder and lightning, and I know it's weak, but it's the one I gave you."

I don't think I'll ever get over this book

[cliowo]

are you lonely?

Most of the time I'm okay ^^ it just likes to visit me at weird hours in the morning... dont trust your after 10pm thoughts amiright😂💀

Thanks for the ask!

[cliowo]

It's only years later when you realise being locked in a car on Christmas feels the same as coming home to a dining table with frozen food. And maybe you switch on the lights and put on music and scented candles; maybe you heat up the food and hum along to the tune. But it's still just you and this empty apartment that you love and maybe secretly hate but it's still home and you try to be grateful.

You really do.

Living in a shoebox is better than living under a bridge and you're healthy and what else can one ask for, really. And sure, maybe it's not the sort of home you could invite friends over with its mismatched furniture and fraying rugs, but it's yours and you fought to keep it - you have to love it, it's yours. The food is warm now and even tastes better than it looks, which is nice! Great, even.

But you're still thinking of that night they forgot and left you in the car with only the fairy lights for company. You remember wondering if it would still feel this way if you could somehow survive swallowing them in handfuls. Stomach and heart satiated, at last. Would it still feel this way? Would falling through the cracks feel less like being abandoned and more like something you choose?

[cliowo]

Absquatulate slang.

(Verb): To leave suddenly, without saying goodbye

I miss you before you're even gone. I love you and it becomes my fault. When you're beside me all I can think about is losing. In every universe there is a version of us playing cards. Every hand we're dealt leads us back to the same conclusion. It is always your name I call into the dark. You turn around, and all of a sudden you're Orpheus and I'm Eurydice. I miss you more than I miss living. Look at me. It is not possible to live without saying goodbye. You are going to forgive me tomorrow. I spent much of my life learning we do not exist within right and wrong. Now I'll spend the rest of it learning how to say goodbye.

[cliowo]

"Whales. When they die, they turn to the sun. And your hair color. Sunset - color. So when I throw the harpoon, Whales turn to you."

THIS IS BEAUTIFUL???😭🫶 apparently its from limbus company and I'm so tempted to pick it up rn