Nakadungaw ako ngayon sa bintana.
Umiihip yung hangin papasok,
nag-iingay,
tila binubulungan ako ng kalawakan:
“Handa ka ba sa
paparating na katapusan?”

Subalit walang hanggang nakikita
ang kalungkutan na ito.
Sa umpisa palang,
noong sinimulan natin ‘to,
talo na agad ako.

Hinihintay ka na niyang bumalik.
Ako din, mayroong nag-aabang
sa aking pag-uwi.
Hindi nila alam
na nagpapakapasaway tayo.
‘Di nila alam
kung gaano tayo kasaya.

Naaalala mo pa ba yung gabing
bumyahe ako pa-kyusi
para lang makita ka?
Kahit ngayon, habang ako'y nagsusulat,
pinapakinggan ko yung kantang tinugtog mo
nung pagdating ko.
Nasa pinaka-likod ako noon ng inuman, pero
nahanap mo parin ako.
Tapos buong gabi, pasilip-silip ka na —
akala mo di namin nahahalata,
pero yung titig mo’y
sumunog ng landas
patungo sa akin.
Halos binahagi mo ang buong madla.
Sa umagang sumunod,
unang beses mo akong ihatid pauwi,
at unang beses mo rin akong hagkan.

Habang ako’y nagsusulat ngayon,
napapaisip,
hindi ko alam
kung kailan tayo magkikita muli —
Pero sapat na sa akin ang kaalaman na
yinayakap ka niya
tuwing tumutulo ang iyong luha.
Sapat na sa akin
ang makita ang pangalan mo sa telepono
kahit na wala ka namang mensahe.
Sapat na sa akin
na naaalala mo ako,
kahit na paminsan-minsan lang.
Sapat na sa aking ika'y magligaya
kahit na sa dulo ng lahat,
ako yung talo.

Kaya sa ngayon,
maninigarilyo muna ako dito sa bintana,
maghihintay nalang sa susunod na minsang
maalala mo ulit ako.

The first time I saw him, it was through the glass window of the space that he moved into right around the corner. I thought it was a weird spot to move into but shrugged it off because it was none of my business.

The first time I met him, he was wearing the exact pattern of red and black plaid that I’ve been looking for whenever I shop. I stared at it and felt a little defeated that someone found it before I did! But I made no comment.

The first time I spoke to him, I thought nothing much of him at first. the words I used to describe him were “ordinary, typical, run-of-the-mill”. He was…simple. he spoke like he would steal those cheesy catchphrases like “she was like a shot of espresso” — which is what Andrew Garfield said about Emma Stone. And so I walked out of there as if it was just another Monday.

Several Mondays and cheesy catchphrases later, that little place around the corner that was made of brick started to feel more comfortable, and I saw him more often. Slowly, I realized that there is some charm in simplicity. Eventually, I stopped using the words “ordinary, typical, run-of-the-mill”, and I started using the word: familiar. There is so much comfort in the familiar.

At this point in time I seem to always find myself back at that familiar little brick place around the corner. at the end of each day, I go there hoping to find solace. And I always do. If I was into those cliché phrases I would describe it as a warm cup of hot chocolate after a long, rainy drive. It’s a fireplace during a snowstorm. But saying those cheesy catchphrases would be really lame of me, so…

If I were to put into words how I now feel about this person… This must be how it feels when people are looking for a new place to move into. They have this image of their dream house or fantasy apartment. maybe they picture a place with a marble countertop, a dining table made of mahogany, and a ceiling high enough to hang a glass chandelier from. But then, just as they had given up on searching for that dream place, they come across this little cottage made of brick and hardwood floors. There is a leather couch in the middle. They take a seat. Suddenly, they can picture their life there so clearly: nothing but the pitter-patter of the rain drumming on the window pane, the sound of the coffee machine running in the background, and a slice of chocolate cake waiting for them in the refrigerator. It was the familiar feeling of comfort after a tiring day. It was so far from what they had first pictured, but they are absolutely certain that they want to make a home here.

That is how he feels to me now. So far from what I had pictured, but certainly where I want to be at the end of each day. But the funniest part of all of this is: He was the one that arrived there in the first place. He was the one who moved into that quaint little building around the corner. He was the one who found me. And I am the one waiting here; hoping he finds a home within me.

The rain resembles the pitter-patter of your words.
Each droplet— a syllable.
The chill— your breath.

I trace the streams of water
trickling down the windowpane
the same way I yearn
to run my fingers
down your skin.
I breathe in the scent wafting off the soil
and my insides warm.
The grey skies are calming,
yet electric,
as your gaze.
The drumming on the rooftop
whispers me to sleep,
gently,
as I allow my mouth to form around
the precipice of your name.
I can almost taste you.

I'm flooded with my longing to bury myself in you.

Drown me in your storm.
Drench me with your words.

You are the almost-silent
of my coffee-stained summer.
You are the clear and tender
plucking of guitar strings
on a lazy afternoon;

With sunlight streaming through
the painted window,
just bright enough to fill the room
but gentle enough to fall asleep to;

with the smell of everything we love—
caffeine and chocolate and banana muffins—
seemingly coursing through our veins
with every breath we take;

with the daydream of
what-could-be lingering
in the haze, in the silence
it sits,
it waits.

I proceed to the only thing
I know how to do
at this hour of day:
I stare at the cars passing by,
all the while wishing
I was staring at you instead.

It was one of those days
when nothing else seemed to matter
but him and me.
We strolled around campus
with his hand in mine,
guiding me through the heat.
"Hold on," he interrupted. "Have you ever
written a piece about me?"
"Yes." I have written
a thousand pieces for you, I thought.
"I'd like to read one.
Why haven't you shown me any?"
I shrugged.
Because none of them
do your vibrance justice.

I stood at the street corner under the blistering heat, waiting for the bus to arrive.
I'm not even supposed to be out today, I thought, but I hate to be stuck at home on a dismal Wednesday.

I left the house wearing my Jurassic Park shirt not knowing where I was headed, then decided coffee was always a good idea.
After months of forbidding it, I permitted myself to peer into the corners of my memory and recall the name of that quaint little coffee place you used to work at.
'The service here is amazing, ain't it?'
'You should let other people tell you that.'
'Well, it pays to be courteous.'
Thinking of you seems to be harmless now.

Sweat started to trickle down my nape. The cars were at a standstill. I assumed the stoplight was broken until it turned green and cars started to speed past me. Out of habit, I checked the plate of every white sedan that passed by, in hopes of seeing yours. The light turned red again.

I could see the bus from where I stood. I scanned cars that didn't even remotely resemble yours. For a split-second, I thought I caught a glimpse of the familiar rickety white auto. Don't be stupid, I reminded myself.

The light went green. I saw that I had made no mistake. It's him. My insides went numb.

I struggled to keep a straight face; to remain as stoic as I was seconds ago, but I could feel my expression betray me for a moment. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away. The sedan passed and I could almost swear it slowed down as it drove by me.

I couldn't even tell if it was really you in the driver's seat. I remember often complaining about your windows being too tinted. I tried not to grin at the memory.

When you had passed, I allowed myself one last glance at the plate, and then you were gone.

Thoughts competed for a spot in my head. Did he see me? Did he recognize me? Was he with anyone? Where was he going?

Was it even real?

The bus honked louder and snapped me out of my daze. I got on.

• • •

I was sprawled on the couch with a book on my lap, but I couldn't take my eyes off of the phone. What was left of my sanity argued that you had no reason to reach out. Still, I waited.

At this point, I was drenched in flashbacks of what was, and it all feels like it was only a dream. I was in the passenger seat of your car again, my eyes half-lidded, classical music on the radio; and through my peripheral, I could see the sunlight hitting your face, and I had never seen anything so captivating. The reality of you seems to have come out of a novel - arriving at the most unforeseen time and staying only for as long as the Universe grants. A mirage, in every sense of the word. I wondered if any of it happened at all.

The phone rang.

I almost wrote a poem
saying it would be
the last one
I ever write for you.
                   I almost meant it.
But I reside in a forest of words
I long to lay upon your feet.
You are the only tenant.
Though I have already seen you hunger
for a wood more abundant with beauty.
You yearned
for the abstract; the colorful.
This is where I failed you, love,
for all I have to offer
is the pattern of my handwriting
against a bleak sheet of paper.
How is that to contest
a canvas
that turns heads
with its baby pinks and powder blues?
So I lay here
in the woods
that swarm with lost things,
longing to see the sun again.
And I am always reaching
      and reaching
             and reach i n g
But I am never quite there.
I lay still in the forest
with an abundance of almosts.

~
                    I've been taught
                      To only tread
                  in shallow waters
      But his eyes were oceans of blue
    and I was ready to take the plunge.
       Never mind that I've forgotten
                      how to swim.
     If in return, it is he that leaves me
                        breathless,
  Let it be that I covet air for all eternity.

She feels her frailties
Gnawing at one another
Believing that's the escape
From the somber vessel in which they've been trapped
The vessel that constantly strives to set them ablaze
Yearning to free herself
Of these blemishes that keep coming back to haunt her
As if they never really left -
As if they've always just been watching -
From under the bed
Or through the window
Tormenting her with their eyes
That seem darker than the hollows around hers

I wished for you
excessively.
  greedily.
     immeasurably.
I craved you for days on end
and finally,
   finally.
I got to see the way
your lips form around the precipice
   of my name;
I felt your hand on my waist
as your touch provokes every minute nerve  
      in my body;
I drowned myself in the  
   depth of your eyes
that glisten with wonder as you    
      decipher
the spell you've cast upon me
and how it speaks volumes of every
   fairytale ever made;
and I have had a taste of all of this
    I've had you
    right within my breadth,
just until the warmth
    of the rising sun
  kissed my eyelids awake,
like the tender whisper of the    
       cosmos
or the discordant bellowing
of the void
   as it reminds me:
      You are unattainable.
Right then again I was able to  
   comprehend
that you will remain an illusion to me
      until our paths cross once more
   and in that moment,
nothing will be capable of surpassing
      the bewitchment
   the resplendence
the luminance
of the mere reality that is you