time to go

“hey.”

she said as he stood up from the bed.

“stay here awhile. can you do that at least?”

he walked over to the window and opened the curtains, painting the walls with an orange glow. she watched his shadow light up a cigarette. it towered over her and partially covered the metal butterflies adorning her room.

“here.” passing her a lit up cigarette. she took it and let the smoke waft upwards. dancing coyly in solid lines and dissipating when it reached a certain height.

they’ve been at it awhile. who knows what he was thinking at that time. they were… as this little story was written-no form. no capitals. a dash and an ellipses here and there. if they were compared to grammar they’d be an ellipses, she thought. a lingering broken sentence. no oxford commas here. a semi-colon could work.

there she was, thinking about parallelisms in punctuations after really good sex. the empty kind where you use one another and just enjoy things as it is. the kind that leaves you empty afterwards, but kind of fills a gap or a void that you couldn’t get away from.

she could only look at him and his shadow as he watched the sun set over the river. it is all too perfect, right? she didn’t want someone she could see herself staying with. one can just drop things and leave things to memory. fucking around with just one person for too long though, and one can’t help but be attached. if one cannot quietly follow the rules of a proper society, how then can one follow the rules of this kind of relationship. not falling in love is bullshit.

this connection, you two share: though words aren’t bountiful enough to remember in your older years. the kind you ponder about while you sip your coffee as the rain knocks on your windows. the conversations both of your bodies exchange have all sorts of feelings mixed within it. you feel like your are making love to their former lovers, thanking them for delevoping technique and cursing them for any bad habits they may have picked up. the anxieties, the pent up frustrations and that simple joy of being accepted. of being wanted. of being loved.

“we are an incomplete sentence.” she says. right after that long drag and smoky release. “a gerund. a phrase. the type your teacher encircles in red, because it is a mistake.” she adds.

“and as the sun sets, I guess it is time to go.” he says. smiling at her. that dark orange glow didn’t really do anything to accentuate his face. she sees his wrinkles though, and bad teeth with his unkept, careless hair.

“so soon? why not stay awhile?”

“I guess this is our sunset, too. the light is fading.” he says, like he preferred the chaos out there against the peace of her condo. her company.

he wasn’t necessarily a keeper. but she will keep in touch anyways.  even if he wasn’t the type stay. 

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Musings on One

‘There’s no such thing as reciprocity in religion’, says the atheist; ‘it’s just take and take then they give a bit. just enough for you to want more.’ he said, lighting up a cigarette.

‘Don’t tell me it’s a lot like love?’ she says. Recognizing the new topic that was coming about.

‘That’s what YOU think.” he says, stirring his now cold coffee. There was something about the way he held the spoon… it was loose and yet, refined.  A little shaky, but with a conviction to stir and not spill any of it on the table.

‘Well, out with it then. Elaborate.” her crooked smile couldn’t help but be more apparent with her facial features. A lone dimple emerged by the her cheeks.  He noticed this, along with several other facial reactions from their talkathon.

‘Well, for starters, it’s the selfish ones that think that. What if, you tell me that you don’t feel like things are equal… but you don’t really take the time to see what you don’t see?’

‘Explain.’ she says, urging him on. This was like their Nth topic now and it was seemingly turning in to a debate.

‘Love isn’t really like how some people write dialogues.  You can’t always take turns in the exchange, take for example… the explanation of points and sides; do you really expect the other person to keep giving verbal queues just to show that they are listening?’

‘No, not really. But who knows? Maybe they are just being polite?’

‘It’s plausible. What I’m saying is that you can’t always expect reciprocation in everything. There is never an equal push and pull as physics would suggest. Love isn’t something you can measure or explain.’

‘Like that infinite integer that loops back to it’s original value? I think you called it Wau.’ she asked, quoting one of their earlier topics.

‘Possibly. That’s a good point though… yes, Wau. it all goes back to the original value. In this topic’s case,’ he paused. It was like his mind was trying to process something he could verbalize, and then continued, ‘the one you love’

‘cheesy bro. cheesy. What does that have to do with the point on equal reciprocity? or lack thereof?’ she mused at him. He talks too much, she thought. He gets lost in translation and in the explanation of multiple points in one sentence most of the times. It was like beginning a sentence without really knowing how it was going to end.

‘I guess it represents an absolute. A theory of entitlement.’

‘How can absolutes remain a theory then?’

‘It’s…’ her cynical question caught him off guard.

she interrupted. ‘No quoting Camus or Sartre. No Bukowski either, please.’

‘Well, the theory is that, when people expect something, they want to get something. It’s an act of reciprocity. You give, you can’t help but expect an equal return of whatever it is you gave in the first place. That, in itself, is an absolute. An endless cycle but it all boils down to that one person you are expecting it from.’ the look on his was a bit confused now, as if he said something he was still piecing together…

‘Point taken, but it’s like you are going around in circles…’ she then remembers referring to that singular number called Wau… ‘A mathematical truth, huh?’  she adds… ‘And yet you seem to say that you can’t really measure something like that.’

‘Not necessarily… maybe it’s not supposed to be measured. In the end, it all boils down to that one.’

He stops.

‘That one person, eh?’ he mutters underneath his breath.

He puts her picture frame, face down on the table as he finishes his coffee.

Hope

Gold wove into finest thread,
falls like summer evening’s kiss.
Framing painter’s careful work;
soft landscape such as this.
Intense and burning blue above
works down on all below
petals, softest pink, of rose
a pale enticing glow
hopes are destined long to live
before they’re let to fly
not easy to be put at rest
harder still to let them die.

Again, I don’t have the words.

 

Again, I don’t have the words.

How would one verbalize the rawness of emotion? In it’s simplest form: one or two words do it no justice… and no length can properly convey the meaning.  As much as one my try to imbibe in colorful words that prattle on and on, one can really only make sense of things as it throbs in your head. In your heart. Your very soul shudders at the thought.

I don’t seem to have the right words to describe this.

You came very randomly.  Amidst a see of people and faces. Smack in the middle of the loneliest website known to man: Facebook. I was working then. I sent a few messages and you replied a few times and that was it.

Our exchanges were succinct and unassuming.  There was no way we could’ve predicted how much has changed now.

We connected somehow after exchanging text messages. Thousands of them later, you had become important enough to make an impact in my life. Your words were like food and sustenance. It was keeping me going through the madness of my lifestyle. The double jobs. The stress at home. It provided that additional smile and stride of my days.

Truth be told, I still read through our old messages trying to figure out what happened. How I fell in love with you. I can’t really pinpoint the exact string of messages nor the time and date that it did. I remember walking through Baguio with you in my head. I tried to shake it off by going through familiar places. Baguio was no longer a sad place for me. I tried imagining the places you might’ve haunted. I wanted to more about you.

I remember being horribly annoyed you couldn’t come to see me, and the silence treatment I was getting. I hated the feeling. That silence. I couldn’t understand why you meant something to me. I was slowly getting attached.

When we started talking again, I found myself seeing in to the future with you. The more I got to know you, the more I wanted to be with you. I wanted you. I wanted to spend the rest of my days with you. This is someone I’d like to be with. This is someone I am starting to love with all my heart.

I’m being redundant. I still find it hard to verbalize these emotions into something more eloquent. I am hoping I could come up with something better to give justice to what I am feeling right now.

One day, when I hold you in my arms, I will tell you that it wasn’t loneliness that brought us to each other. It is something else… and that something else will keep us together.

I choose you. I will keep on choosing you. I may be quiet at times, but I’ll be by your side.

I won’t have the words, but I’ll be here. I choose you.

I don’t have the words

Sometimes, I have not the words.
No word enough to justify,
or give meaning that gives justice
to how i feel. For how you feel;
blankets me like some armor
and makes me invincible.
I can face anything that can come.

most times, I won’t have the words,
to woo you with. It won’t have the same
capacity as these hands and this body can;
The way these lips want to kiss
every bit of skin, or as how these hands
would like to hold yours.
It won’t have the same weight.

a few times, I might have the words
that can give an inkling of the depth;
of how immersed I am in your thoughts.
On how each word you write is carved upon
this heart of mine… and it is enough
to permeate the walls i have erected.
Those words are but a reflection.

there are times, when spoken word
will never be enough. I will sing
with whatever my vocal cords can muster
in the hopes that it reaches you…
that you can feel it in every dip and rise
and articulation of the feelings
i try so hard to verbalize.

I want to turn you in to literature.
That I may read and understand and digest.
I want to flip each page with care
that reflects my admiration for your work.
I want to read you through and through,
and when i’m done… i’ll read you again
just so I can relive that happy ending.

and realize:
I don’t have the words because…
you have them.

unabbreviated

her thoughts faintly smelled of
dainty strawberries, unhinged
from the plastic wraps of cheerios
and breakfast oats.

no freebies here but her smile.
out of context, as i prepare your eyes
from the obvious smell of carton and wheat…
undaunting and oblivious.

her non—challant one—worders say
more than those talkathons over…
nothing. her whimsies and sofies
have hooked my respect.

through miles and miles between
and unseen worlds of abbreviation;
we reach out with blinded fingers.
it is a lot like love in a way…

this fleeting. the countless 60’s
waiting for that tiny blinking green
that tells me it is you. i am
anxiously waiting for… bob’s voice.

yes, the minion. and you are the despicable master that i long for.