Darling, my darling,

our little 'argument' from yesterday,

has left crimson scars on purple ones;

and scratching onto them to

bring out the dried platelets of a soul half alive,

brings no pain,

so let them be there.

Slowly, they'll change from

crimson to green to purple

to a blurred black epiphany

that where there is fear,

there is no love.

Darling, my darling,

I fear you so.

Do facts matter?

They do.

Atleast that's what Agatha Christie told us, through one of her most ingenious characters, Hercules Poirot.

But if you truly know M. Poirot beyong his egg headed, big moustached countenance, you'd probably also be fairly acquainted with his little gray cells. And their working. ANd how they fairly subdue factual deduction. So, the question becomes fairly relative - to what extent do they matter? Over what? Logical deduction? Imaginative reasoning?

Facts matter to a gret extent, yes. Doesn't Poirot always demand facts before setting into his forte retrospection? Facts are the key to clever deductions. Fiction or non fiction. I guess, Inspector Japp would agree with me (the poor fellow went to great lengths to fetch facts for Poirot to ponder upon them). You see, facts present an idea before us - the actual picture of what truly exists or not. In other words, imagination is a derivative of fact. Imagine a red apple? Easy. Why? We know for a fact what red looks like; what an apple looks like. Hence, the ease.

That being said, Papa Poirot asks - how credible is your fact? 'The Earth being flat' was a fact for years until kind Mr. Columbus took the pains to prove otherwise. Facts must be proved. They must be backed up with credible evidences, or in the world of our wise Poirot, they must fit in.

At least that's what Poirot has to say.

Eh bien, facts matter.

Like snowflakes my memories are:

Round, solid masses of crystalline beauty,

Unscathed, wholesome travellers

Of the capricious time lane.

Like snowflakes they are beautiful,

Together, each one of them splendidly

Adorning my arena of sentiment,

Ever since I could decipher my whirlwind thoughts - cherishing kisses

and imprinting kind verses as I

abated my reproachable self.

These snowflakes, these dreamlike memories of timeless frames

captured and nourished with such care

Are so very dear to my wandering mind,

Such precision, such care, such fear

These lovelies command of me!

For should I touch one with a delicate pinky

It'll crumble to a flowing trickle,

Seeping away from between my fingers,

Diffusing amongst the tears of my sobbing soul.

Or should I ignore my treasured flakes,

And should they abandon me,

Flying off to faraway lands where memory

Fails to redeem itself. Thence,

I shall be left sans a past,

Sans an identity.

Such are my memories of home,

Of love, of misery, of envy,

Of life.

And I must surely cling to them

Like the winds of winter

Caressing their snowflakes

Caring enough to let them pass,

but not enough

To lose them forever,

For that indeed shall be my end.

Dear lover, do not be perfect.

Show me that your persistent phonecalls

After my 2 a.m. shifts arise from distrust,

Or insomnia, but surely not concern.

Spill your sins out of that guarded arsenal

If there is one; please let there be one.

Let me gaze surreptitiously at

The crinkled sheets from last night

When I wasn't in your - our - bed.

And dare not bring out the words I need

To hear, in your satin laced whispers.

For once my dearest,

Make me unlove tiny bits of you,

Before my stubborn young heart

Falls head over heels for yours.

Before it refuses irrevocably,

To settle for a love

Any less than yours,

If you should go.

Must I wear the satin silk

lying in the folds of my new wardrobe?

A sexy, black brassiere on an ivory skin

does paint a pretty picture

in the crevices of my hopeful heart,

beguiling my rational mind

to give in to the temptation.

To you, dear reader,

my dilemma must seem

a regular conundrum to a call of fashion,

trivial, insignificant;

however, it is anything but.

The gorgeous garment yonder

beseeches me to accept it quickly,

lest I fall short of my own daring.

For I, I who was born a man,

cannot grow as one.

The ways of the the other gender

that He was so kind to bestow upon me

lays laden on my chest

like Pandora's dreaded box,

enchanting until opened;

and now that it has opened,

leashing out the angry swarm of hateful upbraiders,

I choose to bear the stings

than shut my newfound sexuality.

The black brassiere should be brought out,

and so should my identity.