And so I write.

I can tell you of a time he asks you to guess something and you say like “bananas!” and you both keep on laughing in your class your Professor will have to scold you.

I’ll tell you his dimples show when he smiles, his curls don’t uncurl with the wind, his eyes glow when he sees you, and his voice has a hint of perfection. This is the guy you met. This is the guy you know.

I can tell you that you will go on road trips, eat in fast food chains and Chinese restaurants, enjoy Korean food, and watch western drama. You’ll have the whole world to yourselves. I’ll tell you then that you can ace your classes and inspire each other. As if you are almost invincible.

I’ll tell you, to be fair, I’ll tell you what people don’t want to tell you. You can lose in a battle against time. You can grow together yet change differently. When the day comes, stupidity hits when people insist to put a question mark where there is already a period. Perhaps of all the things we get right, we hurt all the more for a share of wrong. Like a 59/60 feeling in a test, a tinge of regret. He’s the missing 1.

Now I’ll warn you about the after effects. You feel the hurt once and the pain comes back again. Like an earthquake with the aftershocks, and you feel damaged and hurt in more parts of you. There is no Physics in love when it says the distance an object goes up is the distance it travels going down yet it seems people crash further when they fall. Isn’t love illogical?

First date

On the last day, teary eyed, I asked him to choose between me and her.
The previous midnight I insisted people are not built with two hearts.
How very ironic that just about a month before, it took all my strength to pretend I didn’t know.
I had to hold my own curiosity, anything to delay myself from confirming he was falling in love with her while saying I-love-you’s to me.
On the last anniversary we celebrated, I would have done anything to reaffirm we once loved each other.
I burnt parts of myself to keep the fire alive, holding back my own logic.
How do people manage to wrestle down their own thoughts but not their emotions.
I still remember very well like the way we never forget what we look like after looking through mirrors.
On the first day we met, he asked if I wanted to join him for some coffee.
Of course I went. I figured I needed coffee to keep me awake later that night. And in a way it had kept me awake even the nights after.

From me to you, with love.

I knew I couldn’t watch you go when my tears decided to blur the sight of you leaving. I didn’t place my heart on your door so you could step on it on your way out. People learn. I have tied my emotions in ribbons so the next time I give my heart to someone, he’ll only ever have it when he decides to tear apart my gift-wrapped walls.

Oil on canvas
Artwork by Roy Rosatase

You see, you don’t.

Of my most innocent days, of admiring colors in the wings of a butterfly, and days of staring blankly at the rain or tucking myself in bed only to feel cozy in the warmth I am in, emphasized by the cold, I had once wished for Harry Potter’s cloak too. I was certain I wanted to make myself disappear.

And then one day my little heart understood why comics were labeled ‘Marvel’. These didn’t contain fairytales but you would marvel by the idea, your imagination would thrive in the stories, devouring every ounce of fiction. I once dreamt of getting superpowers too.

I now come at the age where I stare at my old self, because my comic spent childhood is like a dream I woke up from. And now X-men to me means irrelevant. X-men. I don’t need special abilities. I grew up typical, and yes my imaginations and dreams thrived in books. I did go through a phase where I can be labeled a bookworm. And again I tell you, I am at this age now. And writers don’t need to bring me fiction. Because one day I met her, she is so beautiful and so perfect in her imperfections, and here I am, a typical.

One day I met her and woke up from my entire childhood. Harry Potter’s cloak, Marvel’s special powers, X-men abilities, fiction, see she proved to me that I did not need those things to be invisible.

Love across four walls

Our love wasn’t trapped in a box. It wasn’t hidden in a package  waiting to be delivered to the right person. There is no right person. There was just us, two people an ocean away. People will never understand how we deliver our love to each other. Maybe cupid flies across oceans for us. This, unseen, unheard, but felt from an ocean away, tucks me to bed in cold nights and I know then that I can sleep in peace and wake up to your love . And though the tides may turn and the tides will flip, it never managed to drown what we had. Maybe you didn’t stay by my side, maybe you couldn’t, but we found love beyond the four walls of our bedroom.

Walls and pavements

It scares me

to have that someone who can look at you as if you could not be more complex than a jigsaw puzzle.

That someone

Who is able to turn the little things you have told into pictures and puzzle pieces. That someone who tries to figure you out. Right when you taught things were hard, it scares me to have that one person unexpectedly come and laymanize things for you.

That someone who can view you as a simplified equation even after you have painted yourself with strong opinions just to cover your lack of factual knowledge. That someone who sees your lapses, knows that you are an erroneous problem but chooses not to count you as an invalid question. That someone who instead looks at you quizzically and corrects the wrong parts so you could finally be solved.

It scares me. It does. To have that someone who got you “all figured out”.

Presence

 

Scars are just scars. They do not hurt any more. It is always the freshest wound that hurts most.

Scars tell their stories and it is those stories that hurt; not the scars themselves but the memories brought about when you emotionally rip off that patched up mark on your skin to have the scenes of your flesh and his flesh on the same setting, replayed on your mind.

Sometimes. Well. Sometimes.

Sometimes we do not need someone to erase the scars. Somehow we do not even feel the need for someone to serve as our vent. Not someone to listen to our life story, to listen to our tragedy and love us even after our dark history. Not someone to help us carry our luggage… burdens? Or someone to show us our future, our happily ever after. Not someone to show us how happy we could be.

Sometimes

We just need someone to be there. To smell the sweet scent of the same air. To share the silence of the night. To just be there.