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Advent Aug 25
what are love letters for if permanent ink
doesn't entail candor
nor draws sight of the future?
but only the mere fleeting moment
of when the letter was composed?

what are love letters for if
metaphors don't suffice
and mind you,
words aren't her weakness,
despite

what are love letters for if
timely are feelings
flickery and
always changing
but never ices an ending

it's nothing but a sonata of promises
vows, and oaths
of I love yous
and gorgeous penmanship

of lads desperate
for love
that worships

―a.t.
Advent Jun 5
The redness on your arms. Your roughly patched skin.
Your soft black hair I used to push back.
And the cold skin on the sides of your chest, the parts I used to trace.

Your neck. Oh, your neck. Where I used to bury my face.
And your smell that comes with it.
Your stubby fingers and your wide palms. The spaces between them. I miss those parts.

The back of your ears, those soft muscles I used to caress.
And your imperfectly shaped brows, those that I brush with my thumb. I miss those parts.

And your lips. Of course.
Those plump lips that touched mine.
I miss those.

Except you.
I don’t miss you.

God, I’d rather ****!

―a.t.
Advent Apr 24
Disappointed with the way it is
and how it has been
How you feast with the beasts;
taking advantage of the situation we’re in

Divided in unwanted conspiracy
Divided in different sides of the story
Coming only from a simple plea
of your self-absorption,
and blindness from own’s irrationality
have you caused a dent, a division

With less hopes of resolution from this mounting divide,
Remember: we walked with all your kinds,
in wretchedness and in exuberance,
attesting, didn’t we all have a good run?

Now hear the people of your past,
stop romanticizing what won’t last–
Foreshadowing with plastering rewards
Those previously resented, now with flying regards

―a.t.
Advent Feb 10
I’m writing in memory of your beautiful skin. I’m writing to profess my obsession, in admittance, and also for your knowledge, how your flesh makes me mad. Mad at you and those around you who get to have a glimpse, a touch―even the softest, most placid contact of the husk of your core, your bloodstreams, of your entrails.

I write for you to understand that your skin is the only skin I want to touch, to watch at night, resting. And I’m also writing for your appreciation―which I don’t think you will―that these are the things I think of when I’m with you even during the briefest moments we spend together; that there will always―for always―a feeling of admiration while you’re standing next to me, arm on my shoulders or when your hand is on my thigh.

Sense of touch is one of my weaknesses, and one could only imagine the faint in my heart everytime we brush against each other. Even the littlest and the most innocent touch there is. I am also guilty of being infatuated in our fondling, your caress, and your sense of being-there. And I don’t know how to make sense out of it. This craze is almost like a delusion that is outside of my circle, unprecedented. Your flesh and its texture. I love it. I love it so much. I love you so much.

It’s making me sick.

―a.t.
Advent Feb 8
I feel like a sick lady waiting for well wishes from my sisses and mates. I’ve been a giver and a settler and in three weeks, I found myself hanging in between. And now here I am, in my sickbed crying for attention— living in this pocket-sized, time-filler, slick box for most of my days just prying on everybody else’s lives to check how incomparable it is to live a life less like mine.

Everyday at five, the sun sets, overshadowing the blue sky with soft transitions of reds and oranges. And just right before I knew it days, weeks have already gone by. I found myself with nothing but dull empathy and collective misery. I re-spiraled down to the mantle of my being until it hit me— attention is cheap, but intention is gold. And I have wasted so much time, so much time, chasing the idea of perfect romance from the most impossible people. It made me worry, too, on how bad I have been in making decisions just to curtly satisfy my longing for any human who can provide even the slightest damp on my cold skin.

I’m not trying to compose a self-help quotable narrative nor ****-**** essay about self-love. I have stripped off the idea of 1-2-3s, of healthy coping mechanisms, of capturing perfect moments from the most mediocre, mundane fragments of life during my trying times. These past few encounters have been merely playdates and guessing games where I’ve lost sight of innocence and sincerity, making it hard for me to differentiate temporariness with permanence. And knowing kindness with or without an agenda is like a cloud in my head. Therefore, throughout these years, the flowers I planted have slowly wilted under the shade of infinite uncertainties. I have lost the love I was willing to give, and I can’t help but think that romance is not for me. I’m tired of giving and losing; I have given up moving mountains and breaking walls just to find myself being stabbed for being too much. From this day on, I am going to be me, with me. A bloke. A woman—alone in a swarm of parasites and flock of birds. A strong, pragmatic, detached woman in this horrifying epic journey of self-salvation.

—Advent
3:27am
Advent Feb 8
We were standing against the railing of a balcony somewhere before the ocean, under the dusk of good night’s sky. The quiet air, moving past our faces, hair blowing, fills the dead atmosphere in between the silence that clears the solitary moment. I reached for your tiny fingers as I shiver in the cold. But only the coldness of the midnight tickled me. My smile turned to a frown then I turned my back on the shore.

I wish you’d come back.


a.t.
Advent Feb 8
Your beauty is like the smoke I puff on a Sunday afternoon after all the dandelions fly their way up―visible and infinite. Imagine it on an island while you chase the light right above the ocean. And I’ll be seated, watching your hips sway, realizing that you’re too good for me.


―a.t.
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