It's weird
how most people
looked at love

as a field of peaches
during the harvest time

and not as two palm trees
trying to weather the storms
of the barren land.

In this bedroom
with clattered papers
and dusty bags
and unwashed clothes and endless dreams

glittering and fading under the solitary light.

Truth is, I am somewhere else
somewhere near the shore
collecting sea shells
while the wind passed through my hair

my parts being scattered everywhere.

Maybe this is just a dream
this towel hanging lifeless on the headboard
the half-opened closet mouth gaping at me
the walls asking where I have been

the water bottle demanding a refill.

Maybe the truth is I am somewhere else
Somewhere, where sadness is far away.
Maybe I am sitting on a bench or inside my head
or in some star at 3 o'clock in the morning

*Waiting for your arrival.

Find him commenting in some poetry site. He is the one who has an avatar taken some 8 years ago. He usually floods people's notification with likes, sometimes comments, encouraging them to pen more and appreciating how talented they are.

In his page you will see old poems which record the details of his life. The happiness, the pain and the longing, the failures and the regrets, the endless hope and the secret dreams.

Layer by layer, he will take you in the various avenues of his past while constructing the future he imagined will exclusively be for the two of you. Certainly, it's not the tomorrow of the moon and sun and stars, shining and splendid, but it's not the tomorrow of ******* either. Because the guy who writes has the courage to face the truth and defend it no matter what.

Date a guy who writes. Sometimes, you will find yourself arguing with him about drugs, and you will find him comparing weeds with make-ups or coffee in some car accidents. You will find him absurd. You will call him stupid. He will call you a dunce. He will walk out. But when all is said and done and frustrations had subside, you will see him retracing his steps and staggering back to you. Yes, that's my man.

Be with the guy who writes. He's the type of person who remembers the details of you and never forgets. He even knows what your breathing sounds when you sleep, the sharpness of your every inhale and the gravity of your every exhale. And he could write about it. In sheer metaphor.

He gets paranoid sometimes, the guy who writes. There are moments in your life, nights like this, when all the worlds are asleep including the moon, when an idea must be coined and placed on the palm of your hand and handed to him as soon as possible, lest it would disappear.

In this kind of situation, do not ever give a hint until the surprise has been wrapped. Because he will press you to talk about it, insist his desire of knowing what it is about, accuse you of being difficult then claim that you are merely trying to annoy him. He can be obnoxious and suspicious but when everyone sees you broken, beyond questions he will find you beautiful.

Date a guy who writes because he has the will to stay and the strength to maintain his loyalty -- through the ups and downs of life he will never give you up. To him you are more than every poetry that has ever written in human history. To him you are greater than literature and far larger than biography.

To him, you are more than the stretch of the ocean to nowhere and the bend of the river in the mountain. To him, you are more relevant than the reality of everything and at night, before he sleeps, he will look at you and you will see in his eyes the infinity of forever in various forms.

That sometimes
words are not enough.

Most of the time, actually.

Because people need reassurance, always.
And not just the ordinary kind
of reassurance.

It must be the kind that is certain,
that is constant
that never falters.

The kind that is strong enough to weather life's series
of resonant, unending storms.

It should be the kind
that people can hold on to, always.
Most especially in moments
when every bone inside them begins to shatter.

Nick, I am a bit drowsy.
But hey, listen.

When that day comes
your hair finally gone,
or the remaining strands turned grey
or white and wiry,

when that day comes,
I want you to know
that I will still love you.

Always remember that.

December arrived
and knocked on the door.
And I slumped on the chair
and stared at the ****.

I found you.

You were in every word.
You occupied the spaces,
its continuum
and truthfulness.