Mornings at the Garden Loft of 5

I have to admit, every day when I get to our office, I try to find a place in my mind where I can be quiet and write (to you).

But when I see the things I have to do, or have not done from yesterday, I sink into my goody good shoes and decide to scratch off the things that must be done over the things I want to do. That is every day. I'm not complaining,  because I like my job. It doesn't feel purposeful, and the creativity it requires is thin. It's fun to work where I work, people are cool, relaxed, on the go, and young (not literally, entirely). But I don't forget that I'd like to

Talk to you
Have daing salad with you
Marathon with you (not exercise)
Hug cats with you
Pass notes
With you

When I'm in my commute, quiet mostly, I wonder if I still have a page in your book. I miss how you write my initials like a tattoo, only better, because it isn't painful, just ticklish.

Yeah, the first time I saw my name on your page I imagined how it must be kakakiliti, then kilig.

Dancing

I write these words to you,

 

river of foaming dreams.

 

Your mouth is a poison of bitter taste,

 

your blood the chilling song I hear.

 

In this room of jazz

 

crippled vintage trees,

 

I am a patient rock

 

dancing on your skin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Magnetic Fields - Dancing in Your Eyes

Jealousy is a lesser evil.

"Are you the jealous type?"

"No."

I'm not a very jealous person. I feel, like I have exhausted majority of my jealous genes when I was a kid--over the most shallow things, like a classmate with a new doll or the one with the highest score in class. But I'm a very demanding person. My pride, though I know when to put it to rest, is very aggressive and fierce. I demand attention, affection, dedication and exclusivity. I don't share--not dessert, not my girl.

So when jealousy flickers in the background, it usually touches my billowing skirts. Then there's fire. An insulting burn that will not go away. I may even dare say, I have been insulted well enough to light up for two people.

So earlier this morning I found out that the Y continued talking/texting/flirting/tweeting the girl she kissed while we were "dating" (in her defense she said she was so drunk and so high--and yes, she lived in a world where drugs was apparently a valid excuse, which of course I worked iron hand on to correct, duh--the other defense was "we're not formally together" so she didn't think it was an issue, but if this was presented in court, then 'your honor, may I say, that the kiss happened the very night she had my initials tattooed on her skin, so if we would validate the "we're not formally together" excuse, your honor, may I request that whatever weight or meaning and value that tattoo earned, be retracted. Thank you.')

I got infuriated. The issue with that girl, who has no playlist, library or even word bank to be proud of, is older than our relationship, was rectified from the very beginning--or so I thought. So I am insulted, disgusted, not jealous cause clearly, can I please be jealous over someone more deserving of my anguish? I'm angered and distrustful.

So this is my Valentine's letter for Y. More than anything, I truly value, my peace of mind.

Dear women, I know that you're worth all the confusion, but recognize, I'm worth the security.

It's not that we're broken up but we're broken. It's not like we live together but we always separate. It's not like we're flailing but it's downhill. It's not like we're hopeless but we fail often. I want someone who wants me so much that's all there is. I don't want to settle for less so let's not be friends, not exes, not estranged, not whatever. I just want us to be good people towards each other. I can't be in this relationship right now, right.now. I want a better love where I can always just be the better person. I'm not removing myself from the picture because I think I'm a problem or because there's a problem. I'm calling it quits because I'm spent. Let's be lovers or friends or names on each other's list. I don't mind. I just want to focus what's left of my self respect to being a good person for me, you, and the people I hate. I always think it's better to kill with kindness. I'm done. You don't have to answer. I didn't ask for anything, which is a mistake I tag myself with. I'm recognizing how the mistakes we've been doing all lead to this close. I hate you. I hate Florence. I hate hate. I'm sorry it's this big. It grew and grew and I didn't ask for you to kill it when I noticed how you weren't being sensitive-anything to save us from this release. I'm sorry for that. On Friday, I want us to meet with clean plates if you still want to meet. I just want to forget, take what I can keep and start anew. I just want to move on from this incredulous turn away. Thank you for writing my name as 8th. I like that infinite number. Symbolically, it's very apt even. Two loops, one sacred point.

Are you the jealous type?

Lamming 1

Let me begin, formally if I may, for we did not begin, properly. We only rustled, witnessed lips and leaves, detach from each arm.

In a notebook, of dotted women, in dire need, of connection and form, my untrained hand, copied, your words, for safe-keeping. My selfish strategem, for remembering, this, but your soul, it came, in creeping waves.

So let me, begin endlessly, this search for tide, rather ground. My darling little mortar, a pounding goddess, my dear, locket of heavy heart.

The eye of the sky, is watching, elephants mourn, the deaths, we share, yet we blame, the trunks of trees, pushing, from each seed.

The secrets, we threw, in casual waves, were collated, by a storm, in, calculating, little squares, a graph, a line understood.

We, have no umbrella, to claim.

If I want to, I would, put a comma, to kill, ev,e,ry, fucking, pe,ri,od.

I worship--

My story usually goes like this, every single thing that she touches, physically or in essence, will be marked. So yes, I am owned upon first handshake. If she gets me a glass of water, and I drink from that glass, I am owned from the insides. Imagine if it's a 3-second embrace.

There's something completely overwhelming about the way I like a person.

Let me put it this way. If I come to a decision that I like you, you can pick your nose in front of me and I would still like you. You may annoy me down to my last patient gene and I will still like you. I try to pretend, or at least would like to believe that I pull it off, that when I decide that I like a person, I refer to a you-ness that perhaps only I can grasp. No, I don't turn people into a concept. I take the person I like first as a name, then as a concept, til I feel her as a beating muscle, and I reconcile word and flesh. I bridge with her resonating sound, wrap my thoughts with her warmth, fog my mind with her breath, put none to waste, til her last falling hair--I commit to everything. Come as you are, says that song. If I decide that I like you, I'd like you in everything that you are and are not.

It's fascinating how almost always, people who seek my acceptance are those who I'd accept (most likely, have already accepted) in every way possible. There's something completely overwhelming about the way I like a person. It's scary, and almost always, it's because I get too scared myself. So there are words, and there are songs, and there are torn pages, and endless cursors blinking through the midnight's plight. 

From Tumblr

All the cool songs and hard-to-spell words, they're yours. 

An abrupt end

Dear A,
No amount of refresh can show your name. I can't remember how many times I've tried to convince myself, "Don't push it. Let it breathe." I read in an article once, it's not true that you shouldn't go to sleep without patching things up. Some things take overnight to heal; but I can't convince myself to subscribe to the thought. My body aches on these unsettling grounds. I can't go to sleep when things aren't okay. How could you?
Sometimes I talk to myself to answer the question. Maybe you cried yourself to sleep. It's the only possible way.
But I know you're not the crying kind. Sometimes I wonder, have you cried because of me? I have this slightest hint of memory of you crying because of me... but I look at it with the clarity of the future and is it really because of me? Did you cry because you were hurting? Did you cry because you were afraid? Did you cry because you didn't like what's happening?
My mom said, I shouldn't cry so much, that only the weak cry. Tears are signs of weakness. Pain is not equivalent to tears. Losses are not equivalent to tears. Those who are strong are able to hold back the tears and keep their head high. I believe strength is in honesty, my mom believes strength is in not allowing yourself to be broken.
Have you always been strong? Is that why I can't remember you cry? I have so many questions in my head, so many I could make a list. I feel like whipping out a paper so I can have a script. When I meet you for the first time again, I can take it out. All I have to do is read my questions so I won't forget to ask. Our days are numbered. We should make each count.
Some people I got to talk to told me, I

Above is a drafted letter-blog that remained unfinished. Funny how confused and lost I was then. That's all the hurt talking--blabbering even. Months after, here I stand now, still confused over a few things, but with a clear conscience.

Every relationship has a way of ending--as much as it has its own amusing way of beginning in the first place. We can never rule out that possibility of losing somebody, or even just the spark. The best we can do is immerse ourselves in the heat while the fire dances with our hearts.

All we have is the now. What we make of it, makes us.

This is why we broke up 3

I wanted to preserve the loud thumping within my chest. It was a drumming rhythm that defined how I walked this earth--march right left right. I know you've heard it once, when you rested your head on my breast. I saw you smile, you closed your eyes, "I can feel your heart," feel not hear, you even clarified. And that, my darling beloved, anchored me on the premise of wanting so surely. Everything that spins, is you, so I spin to the beat of lunacy.

I wanted to be a part of something big, explosive even, and that scared you. You said something about me being destructive and careless and more words you can't afford. How much are you willing to risk to navigate around my mind, I can now just assume. We had points A to Z between arms, like a soldier's rifle waiting to be triggered. This urged me to listen to your tales of wastage while you reprimand me for the pressing wreckage. If only you allowed me to show you. I just wanted the cleanliness of our blast. Like a supernova--so frightening, but most often than not, for the best of us.

That blinding light that caused you to jerk a quick left against a street post--to save your leg or another life--those were the quick radical questions that pounced on me as I decided to go. I will never learn to drive, I made it clear, but you said I still should try. So there we were, with a crash piercing through the silence of not talking. I wanted to blame my lack of skill but you forced me to be everything else but me. No horns could have halted the pages from turning. We turned until there was none left to lift--not even each other.

As I press on the mold to imprint my thoughts on you, I become the word with dropped letters--forming different worlds darker than the tunnels of your heart. I just wanted to preserve the sparkling need to be loved by you and only you; then I met someone new. I met someone new. I met someone new.

I stopped wanting you.

We deny ourselves as much as we lose what we stand to gain.

This is why we broke up 1

Wolves howled from under my shirt
a declaration of the phases of your moon
I found myself lost between my skirt
awaiting a reckless slow burning doom.

I have ten other reasons written on my journal, but today, that shall do. I can't let you burn me out. You wanted, too much.

Love Letters

Dear non-friend,

I just want you to know that the past few days have been dreadfully painful and heavy... and I wouldn't be smiling right now if it weren't for your consistent effort to make me smile. Last night, you asked me to take care of you. I hope you know, I am beholden to your presence, my love.

Dear partner,

I hate myself for causing you so much misery, unimaginable and unintentional. Things changed, mostly me, and I hate to admit that most of the blow, you received. I admitted to you that I have not cried for us until now. I hope you didn't jump into the conclusion that I am not hurt. I feel too hurt to have let you go, for my own selfish worldly sake, that tears do not suffice to release the pain. You are my dream realized--and yet as prisoners of circumstance, I decided to bid us goodbye.

Dear self,

Happiness is never lost. It is always waiting to be shared. Never lose hope.