The taciturn howl
to abandon your home.
The "last" pitch of
the thesis presentation,
against the broken mirror.
The shift on your accent
from every tripped up job.
The search for a familiar face,
reverted through the chai tea,
facing the boulevard or the grandma's sewing machine.
The fervent believe in love
like one who believes a speech
within the stomach's roar.
You managed to get up
willing to keep things in place.
Forgetting people with the speed of a greeting
trying to smile with a suitable gesture;
encroach, with the pace of who retreats.
For you,
what mattered most was told in undertone
and it was enough to stare at the mirror,
your own way not to find a thing.
For me,
your silhouette will always be limping on the airport or
standing behind the neighbors' parade
in a vain endeavor to say goodbye.
As my eyes meet the bare sky
lifeless and mundane
an unsatisfying gradient
of a dull blue and an equally dull orange
a part of me aches
aches in knowing
that no longer can i trace out the constellations
and no longer can i listen to the whispers of your comfort
played out for my chaotic soul
but aching is all we seem to be doing
it is something
every unloved
have had engraved in their bones
for finally we succeeded
in chasing away the stars
so ache we must
That year was
a yellow deck of cards, shuffled dry,
a drowned building melted into chartreuse paint,
a clock on the tallest building that counted the rock bottom.
That year
put up a fight, stood sturdy on shining pavement
that sad on shattered rocks.
That year when
bathtubs were filled with herbs for tea to sip
after burning my love letters to him.
That year
a played tears at the backdoor of my guitar.
A year
that climbed a ladder of missing steps with wide
darkness spaces, and grew pale
chartreuse-colored sea-flower poems.
What is your saddest story?
It was I never told him how much I love him.
don't
regret
that
have
met
you
but
sometimes
wish
had
walked
away
at
the
start
and
"A year ago, we stayed up till 3 am talking
And today, I don't even know how to even say hey"
Maybe that's all we'll ever be
~an incomplete sentence...
~a half-written story...
Finished,
without a happy ending.
You stole my heart like a torn page of an old book.
And I do remember how much you loved reading,
So I wrote letters for you.
I wrote how delicate your hands when you're turning the leaf of someone else's novelette.
You're too afraid to rimple its pages nor spill your coffee on the printed scriptures,
But you're too careless...too delinquent when you tore mine.
I wrote how you spoke those words aloud like you're shouting a name and certainly not mine.
The shout turned out into pleading.
You beseeched for her to stay and for me to go away.
No more inkjet as you crumpled the parchment paper on your carving block,
Like how it withered at the ends from the laxity you had spared it upon.
Your flickering eyes, vagabond,
Dancing in the storm, you were lost
Drifting too far into the wind,
Spirited and untamed, almost
When the brilliant day darkened
// All the love stories
I wrote
were just
the introductions
of what would be
a tragic
ending. //
You don't love me.
Even when you see me shedding in tears
Your heart doesn't ache anymore.
You don't love me.
There is no other reason.
That is all.
That is how you really feel.