A jarring, disturbing day for a summer breeze in mid-July. The streets were covered by the footsteps of people hustling, hoping they’d be early for their 8–5 job, and babies crying when their mom left for a meeting that started at 11 a.m. And I bought my favorite coffee—a caramel latte.
 
It was as if my worn-out hands, which have been clawed out by the hand of the disrespectful ghost who’s been living inside my apartment, coveted the sun and thought it was time for him to be kissed by the summer and embraced by the coldness of the winter—it’s coming and it’s starting to cry a little.
 
Drop by drop, until my jacket seeped the harsh trickle of the rain. Terribly enough, I was standing near the pedestrian lane, and the universe ribboned the strings between me and this disrespectful ghost. Mind you, he was a stranger once. And we both looked at each other.
 
He was waiting for the bus, and I am too. He’s on the second seat, and I’m on the left, near the window. Third row. He loves music and likes to listen to it when he’s bathing. He loves writing just like I do, and he loves to hum his favorite songs just like I do.
 
He loves basketball, but he rarely plays, and he loves to daydream and has two imaginary friends. He loves to hold my hand and kiss me on the cheek. But then he died. And he smells like the earth—with thick thorns covering half of his body, bleeding through his shirt, and losing his smile.
 
But then again, the earth sent him back, and I started to mourn. I no longer know his name, but I mourn for him. It’s time for this ghost to go, and it happened that we’re both on the same bus, and he was disrespectful enough to not inform me that he’s leaving again.
 
Perhaps I’ve come to terms with the fact that tenants like him will come and go, and their loose threads will always be tied to me. I’ve yet to let go. He’s dead, and he’s now a stranger who once walked down the street.
 
My caramel latte is now lukewarm, and I threw it away, but I was early for work. What a jarring, disturbing day.

The entirety of my being is trapped in the cosmos of all things — of you.
The morning dew greeted me today with the ache of yesterday, or perhaps the certainty of "what was once mine."
 
There was a receipt in my hands, where grief was found and the silence felt like love letters delivered in front of my door, and I was told, "It’s June; no one is kind."
 
A week from now, it will be June. Followed by the same day, but it will be July, and then next, August.
 
Absence of green.
The sun bleached my skin.
Amber sky.
Tears of joy.
 
There was a time when I thought being trapped in the cosmos of all things was part of being loved, loving, giving chances, and breathing.
 
But it’s exhausting; nobody has yet to answer this call — or perhaps the center of this letter is written for you. Mostly because I have yet to find the reason why you can’t put out the fire in me.
 
So I could grow cold and wither and paint my soul an endless winter — but it’s so cold, and I have got to deal with that.
 
And there you are, away from the shore. It’s night again, but it’s still June, and my heart is still in silence.

It was reflecting—slowly creeping into the small, cracked part of my window. Running his cold, sweaty palm on my forehead and onto the crevasses of my already fragile soul. It is growing like small plants waiting to sprout in dry concrete, blossoming into a wild forest waiting for the blessing of the sun and being showered by the rain.

It creeps softly, masked by the greenery, sometimes vibrant and with a scent of fresh linen sheets and apple slices or newly painted canvases dried out by the cool breeze of the weather, and everyone is smiling, glorious, and incandescent.

But it was also reflecting—slowly creeping into the small crack of my window. Where my room speaks a foreign language and my pillow beats achingly; where breathing morphs into a shadow—eventually walking by your side, so quietly you couldn’t even notice.

With the hustling of leaves falling onto the ground and my hands used to the cold weather of Maple Street, the same sky where little strange souls like us meet—under the waves of clouds thickening our sight and our smiles splattered all over the place—remains.

I stirred my coffee, and you drank your now-cold chocolate drink. Your eyes carry the burdens of the stars and gravitate towards mine—I have been awake and alleviating the presence of old souls surrounding us, and I broke down. You embraced me like the classic song you are.

A lighthouse guarding travelers attempting to overcome the sea, I caught your hand and pressed it closer to my chest. Doors opened, unfolding a new chapter for us to climb higher than usual, and you looked at me like I used to look at you in pictures I keep for myself—lulling this young, brave soul to sleep in dull hours where you softly snore in a damp bed while the moon speaks in a softer tone to let you close your weary eyes and darkness begins to unfold within.

Sometimes it makes it harder to breathe the very same air you inhale—and these two young hearts live in another world, closer to home, and you held me, finally, the anchor I once dreamed of, and now your presence I could see—your skin I could be comfortable with.

The slit between the roof and the abandoned house gets me—the moon drowns in his own mystical clouds, wavering and so full of light.

I squint my eyes as the moon hides his presence from me. Almost knowing I had captured it with my own eyes and the grey clouds scattered like waves, consuming my breath and taking it away.

He knows it still haunts me from time to time and he gave his best to give me an embrace—even when my very own existence is running cold and dry and my breath thickens with the mist of unwavering thoughts coming from the night and the stars twinkle at the sight of people looking at them—like a mirrorball entertaining strangers from the club and they shine in their spot. Even when I close my eyes, the moon peaks in its stillness. All the poets used him as their muse, radiating this mellow one could think of when the sun sleeps in her slumber. The poets had perfectly described him in thousands of words and painted him over the mural where I can see him directly and the strangeness of him calms the raging waters in me.

Even when peace is quite chaotic and chaos is peaceful, a trap between the slit on the roof and the abandoned house, squinting my eyes as the moon hides his presence from me. And she haunts me as the sun begins to show herself in ways I am blinded by her light.

In some ways, she shines even when it is night.
In a way, she looks over the moon when he wakes up from his slumber.
In a way, the stars and clouds enveloped her with the warmness of their breath.
In some ways, I couldn’t look at her for too long.
In some ways, I am silenced by her beauty.

There will come a time where we will put all our wishes in hopes of the world favoring our unmet needs. There is cruelty, there is emptiness, there are ghosts, there are cemeteries, there are parks comfortably sitting under the tree, there are seas yet to be discovered, and then there's me picking up the phone and waiting for you to answer.

I know you've been busy lately, lifting yourself up like a broken love song, finishing the last verse of moving forward—and I wait for you here, in hopes of your answering. Even your voicemail I miss, and I long for your broken body inside my head. Your voice I could hear everywhere. Familiarity sinks in while I look into the eyes of every soul I meet—not once did I see you there, but I see you now in every blinking second, in every touch of the flickering lights, and the darkness envelops them with an embrace.

The traffic lights, the piano hustling, the cars beeping, your hands softly ruffling my hair, lightly poking my now bitten cheeks, and I let out a laugh I've been meaning for you to hear. Reminding you of childhood, wishing you'd pick up the small crumpled paper and take you back when you were younger. I will be observing you from afar while you correct the choices that you made on your exam. Erasing those youthful drawings you've done and you...going back to your own nostalgia, where you feel most at home.

I lowered my gaze and ran as fast as I could, chasing the portal that the gods created. I was brought back here, in our home, where our plans were scattered in the room. Where our tears meet on the other side of the bed. Where our hands almost reached the final step of the ladder, and then there's light waiting, trying to take us in.

But you did not look back, and I went home alone. When I blinked, all I could see was the harsh reality of the world—but this has been my heaven for a long time. I guess there was something that pulled us under and we met—for the last time. I tucked you into your old house's bed, where you could sleep peacefully at night with the people you never forgot; I gently brushed your soft silky hair while the light waited outside the room.

And now, we're far away again, like how the lighthouse watches every night for travelers to come pass her by—in hopes they overcome the sea in comfort and safety. I watch you leave again and I wait for another lifetime. Next time, I hope you pick up the phone.

Have you ever considered that if someone is lost, they were once good?
Have you ever wondered if clouds were mists and what raindrops are if rain exists?
It was these nonsensical questions you always find common to believe in,
like when you talk about metaphors, you always think of "rain."

But the moon figured out it was to give comfort to people who truly needed it at this time.
It was unbearable for some, but for you, dear?
For once, it was almost as if you were being embraced by the platonic moon, who once favored the good, and for once, it never happened again.

The wind is metaphorically a duvet, comforting, warm, and private, innocent and cold.
When the wind whistles and calls for the sky, the sky turns akin to one’s warmth of soft lilted voice and embraces the skin of once lost, a phrase everyone uses in things they find wondrous.

But have you ever wondered if the moon has figured out if he is also one of the good?
If he did, then why did he brush off the earth?
He went far away, visible to the naked eye—and never to be reached.

He left the Creator's dearest one, and everyone gets lonely at night, trying to understand why they grew fond of him—but he never once went down to embrace his own kin, yet he left a half of his own, so he could die when the sun arose from his seat, and he could rest until it was his turn to look over for people who needed his company, even if it was only for a few hours.

He knew it got sad at night, and by this time he, for once, favored the good and never to be seen again but felt.