She told me she loves me,
like how the sea remains,
even if the shore shoves it away.
On the day she left,
I thought of the words she said.
I shouldn't have felt secured then,
for she compared her love for me,
to the shallowest part of the sea.
She did not love me deeply.

I was still young when my dad told me that my grandmother had Alzeihmer's Disease. I could not fathom how it was possible to forget everything - the people you dearly love, the most breathtaking place in the world where you seek refuge, everything you've learned, and memories you've made along the way.

I could not understand how she could not remember. I wondered how she was feeling. How does it feel like to forget? I wondered if it scared the hell out of her or if she felt a sense of relief in unremembering.

We came to see her. As expected, she did not know who I was - not even my father, his own son, her favorite one among eight. It was painful because after everything, she had forgetten me. I just stood there - unrecognized. I looked at her, agonized. That was the day I learned how heartbreaking it was - to look at the eyes of someone you love and realize that you're just a mere stranger to them.

My grandmother looked away. Her eyes caught my grandfather's eyes. She stared at him. It took her a long time, but she was able to utter his name. She smiled. That was also the day I learned that perhaps your mind can forget, but your heart cannot. Your heart can and will always remember.

"throw that cigarette away," she said.
i continued to inhale
the nicotine into my lungs.

"you're ****** fixated," she said.
i exhaled the smoke, alongside with my pains.
little did she know, i'm fixated on her.

and the scariest thing about having
all these late night thoughts
is the possibility of them all being true.

the most impactful sentences ever written,
which captured and touched your life
are rotting away on a bookcase;
waiting for the next time,
you'll be needing to flip through the pages,
to find comfort in those familiar words.

"Don't touch that. You'll get hurt" my mom exclaimed as I was playing with candles on the first of November.

As a child, I was always fascinated with fire. Who wouldn't? A fire starts with just a flicker, just a tiny hot spark which ignites a flame. It shifts its colors from oranges and reds to blues and purples. I could spend hours watching how it dances, how it moves - always so gentle and soothing. It gave me comfort and warmth.

I never understood why I was forbidden to touch it, but it never scared me. I was told that it could cause pain, but I still continued to touch even the warmest, flaming fires. I got hurt in the process.

When I turned fifteen, I fell in love with a girl. I felt a spark. We ignited, unexpectedly blazed. Just like the fire, she gave me comfort and warmth. Just like the fire, she lights up and glistens even in the dark. "Be very careful" I was told. "You wouldn't want to get hurt again."

But even the warmest fires can turn cool down. Even the brightest fires can be extinguished. Even the blazing flames can turn into smoldering embers. Maybe that's why I was told not to touch anything on fire. It was a lot like love. Even if it brings warmth, too much of it can burn you. Even if it brings comfort, too much if it can hurt you.

Fire can die out.
Love can die out.

Maybe I should have listened. Maybe forbidding me from fire is my mother's way of teaching me about how love burns.

I made a home out of you
but little did I know,
I was just your temporary shelter.

Now that the hurricane has passed
  - the hurricane of us
the strong winds departed
and so did you.

You left.
Now, I am homeless.


— apbq