Today, in this early afternoon, the sun is missing but I think I met someone I could like - actually, maybe I already like the person enough to type these words that were stranded in my pocket for so long. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Am I supposed to talk to him? To take him out for dinner? Ask him if we could ride the train together? Maybe I'm not supposed to do anything, maybe there's nothing to be done with it. It's just funny how I used to think that in real life - this ordinary and mundane life - we don't meet someone just as it plays in the movies. We don't meet someone we would ever so suddenly click with, we don't meet someone who would ask us all the right questions no one bothered to ask. We can't meet someone like that, I thought. But then, just as the universe knows every single push and pull of our being, it happens. We meet someone who would ask and listen. We meet someone who feels easy to be with, someone with courage and grace - but then it ends there. We meet someone and sometimes that's it.

The universe designed us for the longing and the missing and the hollowness that comes with it. It makes us live with the thoughts and the questions of what ifs and what should've beens but lets be glad it does. For at least in a moment, in that fraction of time, you know they felt it too.  With such fleeting silence, the world slows down, and the sun decides to show up only to adore what it would soon lose in that early afternoon.

I could’ve woken you up in the morning and could’ve been the sun that rises even when we both live in a place where it never does.
I could’ve taken you to museums, at least 2 of where I’ve been to. The first one, we’ll have to take the bus because I’d tell you that I’m too lazy to drive but for the second one, I will tell you that I’ll drive you there.
My car would look at me as though it knows that there is another soul seating in the passenger seat – it was no longer some books, a box of pizza, or my dog.
I could’ve taken photos of you in that place, post them everywhere but subtly so that they can see that there are at least 2 forms of art in that photo — the one you’re looking at and the one I’m looking at.
I could’ve talked to you at night under the stars, in the same rooftop where I told you that I liked the cathartic experience of doing just what we could’ve done; the same rooftop where you talked about your life, at least some pieces of it.
I could’ve brought you to where I used to study. We could’ve walked the halls that stared at me for being too alone and too lonely only so I could tell them, “Hey, here he is, finally.” and they could’ve smiled at me because they know how long the longing lasted.
We could’ve taken a stroll in the shade of the trees or could’ve had a picnic there while watching the joggers and the sunset.
I could’ve introduced you to my friends – they’ve been meaning to meet you. They too know how long I’ve been stuck on an island by myself. They know who I was when I was eleven and when I was sixteen and I bet, if you gave them a chance, you could’ve heard the crazy things we did.
And maybe they could’ve liked you. They could’ve told me how lucky I was and probably would’ve warned me that if I hurt you, they’d stick with you instead of me.
I could’ve introduced you to my family — my mom liked you even then. I could’ve introduced you to my little brother who I would consider as the biggest and most important judge of character because I believe that children can sense goodness in people and he could’ve seen that in you.
I could’ve written you letters, could’ve left random little tokens I would've used for all the words I cannot muster to say.
I could’ve played the piano for you even if I just know, at most, 3 songs; even though I don’t really know how to read notes at all.
I could’ve introduced you to the artists I like and I could’ve known more of yours. I could’ve listened to them and I would have had to remember you every time.
I could’ve held your hand, could’ve eaten brunch with you, could’ve read you a poem.
I could’ve loved you — could have – if I was the given the chance.
But, I was and I could’ve used it but I didn’t.

I wondered what words I could use to solicit a response from you –
then, that’s when it hits me.
You do not respond to words,
you respond to the colors of the sea, of the sky, of the sand.
You respond to black and white photos and smiles that don’t exactly look happy. You respond to songs that makes sense of a moment – of a time that meant something more than the ticking of a clock. You respond to the reverie during the ungodly hours of the night, the messages that try to hide themselves in the shadows. You respond to the questions that do not ask what you do but how you do things and you respond to the why’s without being asked because you think it’s important to say it – the why.
And because I did not know these things well when I needed too,
I kept on waiting for this most solicited response only to be answered by unsolicited silences.

then you realize
the monsters under your bed
can’t get through your blankets
but can go inside your head

Today I saw Picasso’s self-portraits only to realize that at 14 years of age, he painted a man 5 times as old as him, believing that it was how he looked like or at least how he sees himself. At 15, he painted a woman who, under any circumstances, does not look like him nor his mother. As he grew older, the paintings became more distorted or rather abstract and surreal that some even looked like there was more than just one person in the frame. His last painting, I assume, is a face but if you look closer you will realize that they are pieces from different puzzles, that somehow, although they fit together, they are not from just one thing – but aren’t we all are?

Picasso, consumed his days thoughtfully to paint such masterpiece that reflects who he is – that he is not just any other person, that he is not just one person. He is a combination of many, the past and present, his mother and his father, the anima and the animus – all these are parts of himself, who, when put together become the Picasso who he knows.

Picasso has mastered it ahead of us – that we are more than just a face, we are a parade of many and if we do not recognize it, we might end up painting faces we don’t know, becoming a stranger inside a home.

Everybody’s rushing with their lives
So they take what’s easy
They takeout Chinese food for dinner
They find the song they like online
They read the synopsis instead of the book
They say good night too early only to find themselves awake at 2 am
looking for someone to talk to
They make 3-in-1 cups of coffee
They type, they forget to write
But you darling, you’re not made for the “now”
You’re not made to-go
You’re not made for takeouts
You’re for later
You’re for enjoying lunch for an hour
You’re watching sunsets for dinner
Because time will never run out
for something that is not meant for the time being
Let’s take this moment in and stay still
We’re not for now
We don’t need to figure out how
Because darling, we’re not made for now.

On Sunday mornings, I want to wake up to the smell of bacon sizzling over the Teflon pan. Its fragrance wakes me up and as I follow the trail of its scent, it leads me to you in your morning hair, groggy eyes, plain white shirt, and your favourite apron tied around your waist. I want to eat breakfast with you as if time isn’t running, as if the world is in a standstill and the only thing that matters is you, your sloppily fried bacon that I will eat anyway, and my cup of coffee that creates a mirage through your side of the table.

I want to sit next to you and read the morning paper, talk about what’s on the news but most likely what’s not on the news because we both like to believe that what they don’t tell is what we need to know. We turn the pages over until we reach the crossword puzzle; you tell me that anagram goes downwards and Van Gogh goes across as I slowly write every letter, careful not to tick the empty the boxes that we are yet to fill.

I want to feel the warmth of your hands on my waist as I clean the dishes with your humming matching every clink-clonk of the delicate and overpriced mugs we got from a theme park abroad. Your hum fades into a song and you sing it to my ears as your chin rests on my neck, I feel your cheeks grazing over mine and I whisper those three words I have wanted to say since the beginning of time.

But, hey, these are the few things that I want and I hope you want them too, at least before the bacon’s burnt or your favourite apron is all worn out and *****. I hope this is also what you want before we finish breakfast, before I finish my coffee, before we figure out all the right words in the puzzle. I hope this doesn’t die until our mugs have dried, until you finish the song your singing, until your cheeks become wrinkly, until I hear you say those three words I’ve been waiting for all this time.