i'm crying. i think the tears have been itching to get out of my eyes but here it is now. i'm crying.

i'm regretting. i think guilt has finally overcome my selfishness but here it is now. i'm regretting.

i'm breaking. i'd like to think that this is just my heart's way of peeling it's old skin. after all the old skin breaks, i'll come anew. but right now, i'm breaking.

but here we are now, i'm everything that i wish i wasn't but i'm going through this pain again that found me in the darkest alleyway of my heart. i thought i hid well, but here we are now.

i don't know how to end this. i'm just hurt. i miss him so much.

if loving again meant,
sooner or later,
i’d go back to hurting
then i don’t want to.

if loving again meant,
nights staring endlessly
on the terrace outside my room
watching as lights glimmer from the distance
wondering if this is too good to be true,
then i don’t want to.

if loving again meant,
countless cigarettes,
ashes on the floor,
overthinking that maybe
i’m still not good enough
— that i’m not worthy —
then i don’t want to.

if loving again meant,
remembering all the why’s
and how could you’s
that were never answered,
then i don’t want to.

my dear,

if loving again meant,
i’d go back to the version of me:
hurting because of people that weren’t you,
then i don’t want to.

dear you,

how are you? i hope things are doing great for you now. these past few weeks have been a mess i thought i could handle on my own.

i’m doing okay. i’m going out with my friends, been talking more often with my family — like you said i should, and i’m learning about myself more and more each day.

i’ve been trying to move on from you, you know? it’s really hard. probably because everything was still fresh. so far, everyday, i think about you, what you did, what we did, how it started and how it ended.

i’ve been asking myself lately, could i have saved what we had left? was i just an escape? i have so many questions now that you’re gone and i have no means to talk to you.

i’m confused, really. i still want you but every time i remember the good times we had, i remember the pain too. don’t worry though, i have already forgiven you. it’s just a matter of time before i finally forgive myself — for blaming myself with what had happened.

i’ve been watching a lot of shows lately. i avoid the sad ones, but whenever a scene comes where one inevitably cries, i cry too and then all of a sudden, the longing comes back and then i get sad again.

it’s been a tough week for me. but i know i’m going to pull through this. i keep saying that i won’t wait for you but i guess that’s just my brain talking trying to cancel out what my heart wants.

i know we’re better of this way. i know this isn’t a fairytale where suddenly, after i have cried for a long time, the tears will form a wave strong enough to send you back to me.

i know i’m better on my own. i really do. but i miss being with you more.

i do hope i get to move on from you. maybe it’ll take a year? or even more? but i know soon enough i will.

i just hope that when you do come back, you don’t find me anymore. that you already have someone you call your own. that you’ll realize the love we had was superficial or perhaps temporary.

because if you do find me, no matter how much i’ve moved on from this, i’ll probably go back to your arms and cry because i really missed you.

i still regret giving my heart to you. i regret ever falling in love with your eyes, your smile, your hands. i regret ever opening up because i really thought we could have the love we’ve always wanted ever since.

i guess i’ll be alone for awhile. i guess i’ll love another person and know more about love. i guess i’ll just slowly bring myself up and be happy on my own.

i wish you’d come back. i wish love will still be there to bring us back together.

but for now, i wish love would find another means to make me happy without you.

i hope to see you soon. because i know by then, we’ll both have a lot of things to talk about. a lot of stories to tell, jokes to laugh at and other stuff.

i wish you well.

a conversation.

they say,

“everything happens

for a reason”

now

i’m wondering,

will you be

everything

that’ll happen,

or

the reason?

‪you broke my heart‬
‪multiple times ‬
‪it turned to dust;‬
‪to ashes.‬

‪i scatter them‬
‪unto the sea‬
‪which i formed ‬
‪using my tears‬

‪slowly adding‬
‪more sand‬
‪to the shore.‬

i think
the city at night,
the views
from all the balconies
i’ve stayed and
stared at aimlessly,
knows me
more than
anything
and anyone
in this world.

let the battlefield
you’ve fought on
grow flowers
before you come back.

you’re not an
episode
worth skipping.

you’re a
series
worth bingeing.

you ever wonder
how your
demons
— the ones
you see
clear
as day —
look back at you?

a blur.

a bouquet of roses
with buds never opened
for our love
that never happened.

if you feel like

you’ve hit a wall,

remember,

you’re strong enough to break it.

and when you do,

you’ll see

multiple paths

ahead of you

waiting

to be discovered.

and just like that,
as the
warm sunlight
touches my face
slowly,
i told myself
to breathe.

you seem to have already forgetten that the christmas spirit never left. it has been there deep inside you. growing in the same pace as you are each year.

the toys that bring you and your spirit joy has been replaced with the gift of fleeting time — which moves rapidly avoiding your helpless grasp for it to stay put — a sudden realization that everything is fickle and one day will soon turn to ashes.

you seem to have already forgotten that the christmas spirit never left. it has been there deep inside you. sipping red wine laughing at your misery.

christmas comes once a year. the spirit smiles, with a glass of wine in hand, waiting for your next demand.

i stand

on top

of a cliff

mesmerised

by your beauty;

you are

the ocean.

my heart beats fast

as i

look down below.

the hue of blue

beckons me.

the sound

of the waves

crashing

whispers

a gentle “hello”

to me.

the wind’s

gentle embrace

gives me

unexplainable warmth.

i always wanted

to jump

into your beauty —

but for now,

i’ll enjoy where i am.

i loved to paint using your colour.

i’d go day and night, from one canvas to another, using different shades of you to paint all kinds of pictures.

i never lost any ideas.
i never had to find inspiration.
it all just comes to me whenever i look at you.

one day, i woke up colour blind. and unfortunately, it’s in your colour.

all the paintings, all the sketches, all the canvasses that were of your colour, plastered, hanged, and taped all over my walls doesn’t make sense anymore.

it was all grey. all dull. a colour i know existed but never really tried using before.

i tried searching for your colours in the things you’ve touched. the words you’ve said. i searched everywhere but whenever i do think your colour will come back, my eyes revert to reality.

now you’re just a memory.

your colour will only exist inside my mind.

those shades i loved. the pigments i crave to achieve every time i stroke my brush. it’s all in my head now.

it’s been years now. your colour isn’t as bright as i thought my memory would remind me of.

i paint with a different colour now.

actually, i paint with all the colours now except yours.

all those nights i spent painting, it’s with every colour i come across but yours.

now my wall’s full of colour again. all from different parts of me. colours i never knew existed.

now,

i’m happy. i’m content.

i’m colourful.

i stopped writing.

not because i don’t want to.

it’s because i couldn’t.

i couldn’t bear the fact that i would have to feel pain and sadness all over again to write something only a few people would understand.

i couldn’t find the exact words. the right sentence. the perfect way to say the emotion i want to show, ending up saying more than the thought itself.

i couldn’t face an empty screen with the line continuously blinking as if begging me to release the letters out of it — teasing it constantly knowing i would just stare at it and close my phone afterwards.

i couldn’t find the right moment to write. and when i thought it was, i just end up thinking about all my “i couldn’t”s never finishing anything i write.

it’s so easy to say, “just write. it’ll come to you soon enough” but little do those people know it’s as hard as it gets.

one day, i write something amazing. amazing to me at least. and the next day, you don’t write anything at all — scared to create a new one that’ll forget the existence of the previous one.

i stopped writing.

but i keep imagining.

writing on my head but never putting them into words. locking them up as safe as possible inside my head where only i could reach. only i could appreciate. only i could admire.

i keep them.

and if one day,

if i get the strength to stop saying “i couldn’t”

i know it’ll all make sense.

but for now,

i’ll have to stop writing.

if you’re dating a poet,
don’t worry about
writing them poetry.

for you,
my dear,

your smile,
your laugh,
your tears,
the way you hold their hand,
the way you embrace their whole body — no, their whole being,

is poetry enough.

if i wrote
a book,
the dedication
would be
like this:

“to everyone
who broke my heart,
who helped me
put it back together:
gave me
all types of
adhesives,
and
to those who
watched and cheered
as i build it back.”

you invited me to dinner, lovingly.

a lavishing one.

excited we both are.

you asked to go to the restroom.

i agreed and waited patiently.

knowing we have the most delicious steak being made and i’m excited to eat it together with you.

but you went through the window of the restroom and never came back.

here i am waiting, patiently, lovingly.

if i get the chance
to write a letter to say goodbye,
i’ll probably leave it blank
— don’t ask me why.

if i get the chance
to collect all our pictures
and put it in a collage,
i’ll probably not do it all
— again, don’t ask me why.

if i get the chance
to see you one last time:
hold you again and kiss you goodbye,
i’ll probably take it
but turn around at the last second
with my head down as i cry.

don’t ask me why.

don’t ask me why
i’ll waste all these chances
to say farewell,
because our love ended
and it didn’t end well.

don’t ask me why
i’ll give in to my sadness
when we could’ve had saved this
because
even if i tried to give my best
it’ll just end up the same;
a big old mess.

don’t ask me why
i’d rather leave than stay,
why i choose to walk away,
because all i’ll probably say is:
we tried
but love ran away.

life has a funny way of teaching us a lesson:

it offers you multiple one way doors for you to choose which one to go in.

even if you don’t know what’s inside of those doors,
you keep opening them.

you hope for the best every time
you turn the hinge,
you slide the panel,
you push the glass,
that life would give you the best
even if you ever so slightly expect for the worst.

to some,
opening the next door is a surprise,
to others,
it’s another impending doom.

to some,
they are surprised with what they had hoped for.
to others,
they are welcomed with an empty room, and another set of doors.

to some,
it’s their last: filled with everything they had achieved from the previous rooms they have been on displayed in every wall with great detail and accomplishment.
to others,
it’s their last: filled with nothing but white, cracked, and empty walls.

some
continue to stay in one room they feel safe.
others
keep on trying.

life has a funny way of teaching us a lesson:

it keeps those doors unlocked.
it gives the room enough space for you to breathe, take a little bit of rest.
it always hangs a sign in every door,
“open me.”
it always pushes you to keep moving.
no matter how beautiful the room you are in,
it still asks you to open more doors.
it allows you to
reminisce,
remember,
recall,
but never look back.

now,
face front, you.
look,
there’s another set of doors for you to pick.

we were going towards somewhere,

i don’t know for how long or how far,

i just know we’re moving.

unlike before, where i only get hitched by

somebody else in their passenger seat

— not knowing when and where i’ll be dropped off,
loving its mystery;
the excitement —

i’m actually driving this time.
and you’re riding your own too.

we’re driving side by side.

either one of us could go ahead,

but we moved in one pace.

where will we go?

i don’t know.

i puff a cigarette.

i’m writing
a eulogy.
no,
it’s not
for someone close to me
who died recently,
it’s
for someone who loved me dearly
whose love died
when i presented my demons
and couldn’t take them individually.

you came here
unto my battle field
planting flowers
that resemble
your promises,
your kisses,
your hugs
— your love.

you filled the ground
with lots of different kinds:
each representing
your love for me
and it was beautiful.

as we lay on the bed
of flowers
you planted,
i sighed
and remembered
the battles that took place in this
ground of mine.

even though
the ground’s already dead,
you did your best
to plant each and every one of
those flowers with care anyway.

“it’ll die anyway, so why bother?”
i said softly, holding your hand.

you smiled and said,
“but it looks gorgeous right?
let’s savor this moment still.”

‪why am i always attracted
to flames?
to ember?
to things
that are already burnt;
charred to the ground?

why is it every time
there’s a faint smell of smoke
li‬ngering in a room
i try to find its source?

why is it that my lungs,
that are already damaged
from being suffocated,
begs to be filled
with smoke
again?

scars,
pulsing to the sound of embers
crackle and pop.

i shouldn’t be playing with fire.
i should’ve learned my lesson.
i should’ve stopped when i can
already feel my hands burning.

but why am i still trailing?

if ever

you don’t

feel

like you have a home,

pull me close,

wrap your arms around me,

rest your head on my chest,

close your eyes,

and feel the warmth of the fireplace

resonating from within my heart.

for

the people

who just came in,

who stayed,

who said farewell,

and for those who left

without saying goodbye,

thank you.

i’m crying now not because you’re hurting me.
i’m crying for the me who’s grieving because he held on to empty words. look at his hands: even though you already left, casket sealed, buried six feet under. his hands are still holding the crumbs you left piece by piece in that same red brick road that showed promise but brought him to where he is now. a funeral: of what seems to be you — for the lack of a better term — the idea of you.

so the next time you say that you’re ready to put up with me. my dear, kindly understand. that you’re putting up with me now, me from then, and me every time i see the glimpse of the future.