dearest stranger
is a stupid endearment i have for you
cause how could you be ‘dear’
when I don’t fully know you

And it’s okay that
your messages are so out of the blue
First one, on a Wednesday
Up to wondering if
I’ll get one today

And the next, two weeks
you’ll disappear like no traces
but yet I’m reignited
when i see the bubble
containing your
unregistered number

no designation
yet i know that its you fully
ingrained in my head
trying to catch the rush
that i felt when you’re with me
as if going back
to the night you gave me
a little bit of attention-
And I thought it would

complete me.

dearest stranger
Oh how im helpless
on your lips taking away
the courage to delete
Your unregistered number

remember i brought it up
and you told me i
was
paranoid.

i trusted you.

i gave my body to you, a permission
to wreck this body, as long as you give me
a chance to recover.

i wanted this, i wanted to feel you,
inside me, in this fleeting sense
that we are one.

and there it was, my trust,
went away as you take the barrier
the symbol of our agreement

and as you ******, inside me
i felt the warm sensation
of the consequences
that i'm about to face.

and then followed your words,
assuring me, but
i was foolish enough to be happy
with the pleasure
i brought you

and i realized
i was stupid enough
to trust you
and to put the weight
of the permissibility
on a thin veil
that protects me,
from you.

i was stupid.
my body told me, months later.
and there you were,
gone, away
with my trust, and my permission

i wish that, you'd stop
with
my stupidity
but i know you wont.

cause hurt people
hurt people.

hello there, a
you probably have gotten what you want from me;

my flesh, the gore that you seek
hidden within me, in this concept that
you feel so satisfied with,
getting what's arbitrary

hello there, a
remember, when you used to tell me
that the perception of 'being enough'
lies on the lips of everyone else but me,
especially you?

I guess so.

hello there, a
you probably had the time of your life
from your driven authority
on me, on how I act,
as if I depend on you
to breathe.

probably, the past is past.
but I want your apology.

maybe your apology
would stop me from shaking
every time a good person, a genuine one,
wants my body
for good reasons.

maybe your apology,
would help me sleep at night
and would offer me rest
from running away from
the nightmares you have caused.

maybe your apology,
would stop these thoughts,
that hinders me from
building myself
back up from the
scattered pieces, big, visible enough
to be reassembled, back
to the old me.

i need it; your apology

maybe it would help me heal
maybe it would help me forget
maybe it would

fill the gap,

the void
that you caused.

please, a

I am desperate.
I need to sleep.
I need to breathe.
to trust my body, and somebody.

and maybe, just maybe
your apology,
is enough.

even though, it will never be.

I like to see myself in a blur
a photograph, trying to get my motion
without stillness in consideration
with details scattered
within the grid of capture
like a speckle of stars
each without correlation.

A blur, you see-
for I am as elusive as my thoughts
indecisive, un-unabridged,
a true reflection of me
luminous, grainy
incomplete.

Yet the murkiness excites me.
for I yearn to chase the
memoirs, fleeting yet
effervescent.
like euphoria, on paper
even though it only last
seconds.

I like to see myself in a blur
Cause to feel the pang
of describing my faces
there, on the canvas

I'd like to think I was, happy.
Cause I only see it in a blur.

a PowerPoint presentation

woke me up, as i input the wrong

numbers that produced a chain reaction

of wrong combination; unacceptable

unhappy

across the room, your voice echoed

as you mentioned five-hundred discrepancies

I have yet to fill

five-hundred mistakes

I have yet to correct

unhappy

five-hundred more, I say,

cause you were wrong

five-hundred more mistakes

with four-hundred ninety-nine of them

is me existing,

and one, is for the wrong calculations

splattered across my dusty screen

unhappy

I am rich; but not in the way people perceived

I am rich, but not in the way that people would envy

As I sat here, feigning attention

I saw him; no harness, with hands displayed

as though he was gifted with the ability to fly

but his wings we’re vestigial

cause humans are made to walk; not fly

unhappy

I stared at him, ignoring the mechanical movement

of my hands, ignoring whether I’m corrected by my

muscle memory

I watched him.

Happy.

Dirt poor, with all adorning him was the flicker of light

dimly reflecting throughout, to avoid collision

I want what he had.

happy.

The freedom to fly,

even though flying means death.

happy

The freedom to choose,

to embrace the air,

breathing my last.

happy.

I could just imagine.

for my hands corrected

the mistake that makes me envy

the man with a reflector vest

unhappy.

All i knew is that

the more i press the keys onto the screen

producing what i never wanted,

I’ll always be

unhappy

unlike the man, on the top of the building

at peace, even though,

knowing that one single misstep

can cause him

to cease breathing

at nine point 8 meters

per second.

that to me

is freedom

and I'm

happy.

meeting men
was always that easy.

it was evident
     in the way I
     plan to prepare myself

to venture out
     in the uncertainty of the open

trying to align
the inevitable disappointment
        on my self-predicament.

the way I trace
        the marks of ugly, visibly seen
onto my body

hoping that someone
               would like the art;
                the interpretation
of my
               flaws and sad beauty.


it was always easy
     to try calming the nerves
as I knock at his door, the pounding
of my heart
     from excitement, fear
     and self-loathing

as soon as the eyes
of the outside world cannot see
what lies
           behind these walls
that covers
            not only our fragile bodies,
            but also, our weakened souls
till everything is a blur.

meeting men was always
                 that easy.

it's the same thing
       as we put back our clothes
and maybe,
       kiss goodbye

then run away, with such bliss
          from the thrill of doing
what others can do freely


             amplified
by the pulsing adrenaline
             panicked, weary
if anyone saw
             what we have done.

-----------

meeting him again?
                 that's the hard part.

see - cah - moh - re
you used to say that
the wrong ones
dont matter to you, baby-
what if im wrong?
what if i'm not the right one
for you

see - cah - moh - re
you used to say that
the wrong ones
don't matter to you, darling-
but what if you are?
and you're not the right one
for me?

sturdy, sturdy
as the sycamore tree
is my love for you,
my darling thee

but as the roots, spreading
continuously till bedrock-

there is end to us,
there is end to love.

see - cah - moh - re
you say that
the right ones dont matter to you now
for they have no stories
to tell
no regrets to burn

and like the sycamore tree
that you've always pronounce wrong;
till there is growth in stagnation.

I know you're right for me.

Our steps crackled onto the tiles of sycamore
Thudding prints lashed beneath our shoes
Merrily advancing on such pavement
Along with you.

Side by side we barely stopped
Expunging air around with nature
Our bones twitched with each other’s ligaments
While our eyes took moments.
Pacing freely with the wind
Of autumn trees blessing us with leaves
Fallen it may be, but it will be felt
Like a wedding with petals on the carpet.

I barely notice the faces as they bounce
Or the blank mask they wear at the parties
For all I see is my sun
And I will bask with him eternally.

As we were approaching towards the way
Grip within a grip, steps are on square
All it takes to be happy
With you, I realized, it was simple.

I colored my hair for you.
platinum blond, like the ones
you always looked at the magazines
that you stole from the department store;
pretending to stroll casually,
walking slowly, avoiding stares
while we held the laughter
trying to burst within
our cheeks.

I colored my hair for you.
because of the inadequacy I feel
whenever I hold your hand
as we walk across the
judgement of bystanders, gazing
whispering, but you and I knew
that they don't matter as
long as I am holding you,
and you are holding me
I felt different yet
with you I am the same.

I colored my hair for you.
to express the liberty of your choice
to be with someone like me,
with black of hair, beneath your chin;
and being with you elevates
my being, and the contrast
of differences among differences.

I did it for you,
or so I thought.

you asked me why,
and I told you
I shed the darkness of my old persona
and the absence of pigments
on the crown of my head
is a blank slate; could be anything

for white is the color of a fresh start
or of deceit,
or of emptiness.

and I am but a mixture of those,
for I am weak but perceived as strong
for I am friendly but alone
for I am a freshly painted wall, with scars
of a graffiti screaming for a revolution

blond, I am.
a simple choice
with a taste
for a *******
freedom
of self - expression.

blond, I am.
a color I chose
to be.

I colored my hair for you.
And I remember, inside my head
I made you.

to ache is an art.

an art that the human soul is deprived of.

an art that everyone;
                    from toddlers
                             to corporate *******
                             must appreciate.

maybe it requires abrasions,
                                    gunshots
         ­                               or mockery from
                                some ****'s mouth

but the glory
of the slow-burn realization
                     that we're ******
is the wake-up call
                     that everyone must hear.

and we're stupid enough to understand
that aching
              is like drowning
                          in experience.

and drowning
        is preferable in deep wounds
            than in the shallow waters
                     of a rushed healing.


and it's saddening
cause
as the youth's yearning
           for the morphine that
                 'self-care' offers

the more we forget to ache.

petrichor is to VX
as temporary is to eternity
for a long sleep
is considered 'la petit mort'

let it pour down the porcelain
stitching
of thy hollow carcass


cold, shivering,
along with
the music of my teeth,
tattering

to calm is to wait for precipitation.

and I want it so bad.

An apple, they say
But why Eve?
Was it a woman who first saw
Lies beyond God’s command?
Was it a woman who first decided
Not to follow blind orders above?
Free will, they say
Yet He was angry at her.

Hey, Eve,
What was it like ?
Tasting knowledge at the first hand
Were the devil’s promises
Appetizing?
I think so too.

You used to care
But now you call me
The boy who cried wolf

Telling me, in unison
That when it comes,
You don't need me telling you

That moment I realized that
I can't wait
For the wolf to tear me apart.

a seven-seven-seven freighter lands down at a runway
as I watched it unleash its landing gear
touching the ground after a long airtime.

I waited in forlorn as I sat at a nearby Starbucks
with my mocha and several granola bars
that I’ve been eating since I started
to distrust the image
I see in front of the mirror.

you caught my eye; with badges cladding
your tight suit, and the way you fiddle
that hat of yours while looking sharp.

the café was empty; as was my heart, as I sit along
the table that spreads across the center
you came inside, alone, dazzling
but your eyes are saying
that you've come a long way from here.

I was drowning myself with thoughts
as I wait for someone whom I didn't know
I would miss this much
when suddenly a tray landed
near the vicinity of my rented
personal space; it was you
smiling, along with your thick brows
and tired, sad eyes, asking me
if I would mind sitting with you.

I said no.

your voice; raspy yet pleasant
as if you've fought in countless rallies
but still manages to fight on for
another day
as if it echoes your masculinity
yet wanting some company.

you offered me your bread in which
I gladly refused, then you take a hearty bite
while asking, "what are you doing here alone?"

two a.m. it was, when we started talking.

I can't hide the fact that it was
charming, the way you talk
as if you were listening to someone
endearing but in reality
I looked like a *******, sitting at Starbucks
drinking coffee at two a.m.

I told you I was waiting for someone
and you told me that someone is that lucky
to have me waiting.
I let a soft laugh because it was funny
funny to a point that I didn't even knew
why I was here in the first place.

you told me you fly planes.
that flying was your dream; but you never
thought that it was that tiring; that flying
was meant to be off that repetitive and tiresome
place called land, and touching the skies and
gliding along the horizon was the reason
for dreams.

but you told me you were a bit, wrong.
you told me that however eager you are
with reaching heights, you'll always come back
for land; that landing makes you humble
that landing makes you believe that the sky
is not the limit; that yourself is the key
and travelling is not always the way
in finding one's self.

then you told me I was beautiful
no matter how I call myself a *******
sitting in Starbucks, with my mocha and
granola bars.

you told me that I have passion for love;
that you see sacrifice in me

as if you knew every inch, as if
I’m a ghost that you can see through.

"what are you looking for, in life?"
I asked, trying to comprehend you.

"someone who interests me, every day
someone who understands why I fly
and that not all the time I wanted to"

I gave you a heartfelt grin
you gave me a granola bar.

his phone rang. it was time for him to go.

"it was very nice meeting you. I hope I see you again"

I hope I’ll see me too, I guess.

you've always told me
that your personality lies
on whatever's in between
or who ever is in the outside
of a conflict


watching
                weighing
                                wondering


you told me that
you'd want to be that guy
           whom everybody can talk to
                     whom everybody can relate to
                              whom everybody can look up to
who's always


watching
                weighing
                                wondering


a wallflower
   a grandfather's clock
      a lost artifact


sitting in a room
  flooded with opinions
    storming, crashing
      through the shores of
        your acceptance, and perhaps
      your side


but you never did


like a sterile tree
       I waited for you to bloom
to grow fruits


you never did
and you never will


cause you're just playing god


watching
               weighing
                               wondering


but never helps.

Take my hand
as we walk along the patio
surrounded by clay
and fine china

As we look upon
those who are caged
eternally, timelessly
aging through
unbothered by the
deafening arms
of the clock as they
clap to meet.

Walk with me
through panels and
countless oil paintings


As we listen to the
songs of the violins
that cannot sing anymore,
tip-toeing onto
the sycamore tiles


Funny,
how fleeting
was considered
immortal


and only one
can differentiate


fleeting
from
timeless.


cause
fleeting,
are we
among the immortals;
we are just
passing through.

I got a weak lung
and you got this charm
that captivated  me
when you clutched your cigar
between your perfect teeth
and began puffing
nicotine smoke

'it won't **** you'
you said
as you repeatedly inhale
the poison
embracing it
with your lungs

I've tasted your lips
smoky, cool
when we kissed
how blissful

I asked why
you do it
you said
'to **** demons'
I pointed to
your head
'but they're up there'
I said,
and you
called me a smart ***
and then
kissed me
again

you told me that
you love me

but

I knew

that you don't

cause

I got a weak lung
and yours are strong

but that's not bravery

cause bravery
is
quitting it for me

I'm selfish, am I?

The things we do
that we can’t do
in public
excites me.

Kiss
Hold hands
Embrace -

I thought
our consciousness
was supposed
to tell us
we are alive,
we are human.

But why does
it stops us
from doing things
others can?

We are different;

In public,
we are private
In private
we are public.

Who’s to blame?-

Never mind.

I love you,
And that’s all that matters.