One step further

I look at all the poems I’ve written about him.
All the broken times I said was going to be my last poem of him.
I moved one feet in front of the other.
I am going to get through this, I told myself.
It’s midnight and I’m reading about all those midnights spent awake,

eyes staring blankly on the ceiling.

I ask myself,

who was the girl who wrote all those poems about him.

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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.

In between the door

Right there, when he turned,

something was written in the air between me and him,

memories flashed in black and white

and a little part of it already blurred

These half blur yet vivid memories

they slam the door while my heart is in between

crushing it half on his side half on mine

Half wanting to leave these memories

stacked in a room and locked behind my head

The remaining half wanting to find the keys