I used to make poetry
That would appeal to many.
I was wrong.
Because now I write
As long as I would feel right.

i'm a dog; i'm the rain
i can make you cry
but i can also
take your pain

the stereotypical way
of a girl or a guy falling in love

is a boy whispering sweet lies
because a girl likes what she hears
and a girl dressing up or down
because a boy likes what he sees

but between you and I,
the boy and the girl,
I was the one speaking words
and you were the one with visuals
I was the one who fell in love
and you were the one who never felt the same

They say you're in true love
When you close your eyes
While kissing someone you love

Why yes,
I've kissed him many times
With my eyes closed
Whenever I sleep
And it is only
In my dreams

I don't know who these tears are for;
They're like the unsent letters on my desk.
I can't explain them;
They keep coming out
Of my eyes and hands
For the ones I cannot name.
They say and mean many things
But I can't show them to anyone.
They surround me
Like wild thriving grass after the rain.
I don't know who all these are for,
But I do know they are all from me.

He reminds me of a mandarin orange,
easy to hold and easy to peel
with a slightly rough yet firm exterior;
sensitive to the cold.

His character is that of the sweet flesh
like his gentle words and actions;
with sour tangs that emerge on rare occasions
like a nudge of loneliness from being homesick.

But his mind and soul are the little seeds buried
deep within the depths of his eyes and his heart:
he stays rooted despite in drought; persevered
and grown to enjoy the fruit of his labor.

There is something about the mandarin and its layers
which bring me much more than luck,
love, and even life.
All of it—he—brings me home.

to find out
what we want
is to point out
what we don't want

I suppose
I feel
that it is possible for soulmates
to feel each other's sadness
if so
then I want to cut the thread between us
so my soulmate won't feel mine
but I don't want to cut it either
because I would want to feel theirs
and lighten it with them

But I guess that
there is always certain sacrifice
we have to make
to find our other halves
to complete ourselves

"What do you think
scares you
the most
at night?"

"Nothing."

"Really? Not even my absence?"

"No. Rather, I think
the day
is scarier.
It proves that
your shadow
can still
reach me
even in the light.
But that only proves further
of your absence."

"When you're lonely,
what do you do?"

"I take pictures
of my favorite places."

"But why do you
keep taking
pictures of the same spots?"

"Because sometimes,
I wish
you'd appear
in one of them."

I think I'm always meant to be a writer; in the way where I always see things in third person.

I guess the past boys I used to like were, in a sense, too flashy for me. At first, I don't know what they lacked that I had to stop. I'm looking for something but they just didn't have it. Maybe I'll know when I meet the right person?

So now, I'd rather stick to just observing the boys around me--those of potential love interest or not, like I do with every other person. The most recent boy was such a main character in many people's stories; he has main character quality, albeit only from afar.

I conclude I'm looking for a person who's like me; not exactly a writer, but someone who balances. A reader, perhaps? Someone who sees things in a third person perspective as well; someone who can read people, understand the atmosphere and we can watch and scrutinize over anything and anyone.

I'm not saying that the boys in the past were incapable of being observant, but maybe they just don't care about these things, in the way that I do. And I don't really want to waste my time on a person who's like that.  When you observe a reader, they sort of observe you back.

So, back to my most recent--he's just a main character, lolling about in a plot, used to being watched, and not being proactive enough to be another writer or reader. It's ironic, because there are supposed to be two people in a love story. Two characters are needed but I don't want to be in that situation because I don't think I can be "main character" enough.

I'd rather find myself a reader to match me, a writer.

I've learned something about myself after liking a person. Now that I think of it, I guess I am looking for that thing that sets non-readers and readers apart. It's just really obvious, to me at least, when you know a person reads or not.

The superficial factor is, which I'm sure everyone sees, if a person "looks" like a reader. But you'll only truly know when you interact with them. The reader's thoughts are beyond their "looks" as a reader and goes farther than the minds of non-readers.

There's no rush in finding a relationship, I guess. I believe the readers will find the writers they will want to read, even if they don't know the writers' names at first. They'll come across our stories and they'll feel like being a part of it once they've read; not in the sense where they feel like the main character, but how they understand the writer's thoughts through the plots of the story.

You can see it in one's eyes and we writers have this in-depth instinct in sensing out different types of people: bad, good, weak, strong, non-readers, readers, etc. I suppose sometimes we don't want to admit these things because of easily misjudging people, but it's a fact that's silently agreed on by almost everyone.

I'm really dead set on on finding that quality which will make me love a person, a reader. And so far in the boys I've met, I never found it. But that's okay, because I always find little bits of myself, even if it's just a bit, every time I don't find what I'm looking for in them.

It turns out I'm looking for my other self in someone else. I'm looking for a reader who can read, know and understand me.

I wonder why
I lived from the moment I knew you.
When you become more of you,
I become more of me
Since we are a part of each other,
Even if we were born separated.
You may be there
And I may be here;
But if you weren't there
I wouldn't be able to define where I would be.
I will never stop longing for you;
How can I, with this string between us
Feeling so short
That you've pulled me closer
With just your little finger?
Yet it is never enough
As the void widens every time night falls alone;
Still, along with my heart.
We will touch,
No matter how far or long it takes:
When the moon completes;
When the clock hands meet;
When the rain freezes in heat.
Do you understand?
Maybe you don't,
But you do in a parallel world.
It is that I can only exist
When I know that you do.

I've been wishing for you,
wishing on you;
Is this the reason why
my dreams don't come true
because they don't need to?
When you're here
dancing as the pale moonlight
across my shadowed skin;
it's only in the dark
when I can let you in,
and we can see each other
best and in our brightest.
So paint yourself on the canvas of my thoughts;
allow me to be the blank pages you need.
I'll empty myself for you to fill me whole
with this dance of the thirteenth month—
a tribute birthed out of this tune.
When it ends I'll never move again
the same way I did before:
because now you are the echoing pulse of my bloodstream,
and I'm completely anew like the full moon.

Have you ever looked at someone and thought that they aren't completely good-looking, but they're so attractive like a raw form of art, and even emptiness?

People tell you to move on to the next (and real, pure) form of art but you see potential in this raw one, and you just want to watch that change; watch that space be filled up.

You think of that emptiness as something, because nothing is still something, no matter how paradoxical or illogical it seems.

You want to witness the metamorphosis and you believe that it will change before your eyes, so you watch close and just believe.

It's taking me awhile to move on to see more but this raw art piece really has taken the highlight exhibit in my art museum of a mind.

Maybe because I'm an artist, I'm positive about this and I just keep hoping I could witness the change, if not be the artist to do the change myself.

A certain raw art form in my life has been changing; I'm not able to observe closely but to hear about it is more than enough and relieves me.

To you who is reading this, we don't settle for the perfect in reality. In truth, there isn't a perfect in reality. We aren't all artists by profession or by the definition of 'artists', but once one learns to look at people this way, one can be an artist.

An artist believes, accepts, and appreciates; finding beauty in everything. Once you find beauty in even the most simple, mundane or raw form of art, you find the artist in you.

here?
you're here?
well, i am too.
but i won't be there for you.
no, i will always be there for you.
but i don't think i will be there to hold your hand
or call out your name in reachable distance.
it's been more than a year since we met, hasn't it?
we haven't really met, though.
and i thought this time
we could meet for real.
at this rate, i don't know if we can ever.
i know i've been frozen and stagnant
but you've melted and moved the waters in me again;
i'm able to swim and breathe.
three more days, and you're sinking deeper in me
by every hour.
you're the one sinking
but i'm the one in the waters?
never mind, i can't think straight when it comes to you.
you're real, you're here.
i wish i could be there
to see you.

i'm just a whirlwind
i'm one of the mere walls
which try to surround and get close to you
but i know you can never be contained
not even with the strongest arms
or the toughest heart

you are the eye of the storm
and no matter how calm
or vague you are or seem to be
you are the gusty centerpiece,
the focused target
of everyone revolving around you

i hope you realize you've caused
the best kind of mess
that's all natural
and has left me speechless

because in this storm
of youth
i have found the calm
in you

i'd give anything
to hold those hands again

those hands which have
caressed piano keys
and carefully held my broken heart
which you do all too well

i'd buy every piano
and score sheet in the world
if it meant for you to play again

i'd break my heart over and over
if it meant for you to be here
and hold me together again

i'd give anything and my everything
to hold the hands of the piano man

with your imperfect edges
you are perfect enough
to be filled in
you may be cracked
you may be broken, even

but what matters is
you know how to put yourself
back together
with gold
called self-love

you see,
you're holding yourself up
and you can see your old crack marks
emphasized from the gold
but that only adds to your life story
of how you became whole again

many people think brokenness
is destruction
but it's an art
when you realize you can fix yourself
you know you're unbreakable within
so just be and stay you

the drummer boy’s
existence is emphasized
not during holidays
or birthdays
but rather onstage
where he’s the true conductor
of the band
I see him as the heart of the band
the lifeline which pumps strength
and keeps the blood flowing

because it is only through his heart
and his beats
when the strings know when to strum
when the cords know when to sing
when the keys know when to play

whenever he’s onstage
whenever the heart beats
it is not only the song which lives
but the band as well

warm weathers with a warmer heart:
i stretched out my arms
and embraced her with all i am.
this girl threw an ocean of words,
of images, of emotions, and even of silence at me
over a mango shake, kimchi fishcake,
and a pair of hot matcha lattes.
she challenged me to a doodle dare
when i told her i don't draw humanity,
as much as i wanted to draw her right there on the spot.
let's draw those people on that side of the cafe
ah, a people-watching activity!
just our kind of hobby that immerses us within society
while being in our own little world!
i noticed she draws people first
then the background according to the proportions of the persons;
yes, a people-watcher observing another people-watcher
unlike me who starts off with the walls and furniture of the space.
she drew the ovals for body proportions;
her pencil marks done gently, focused and magnified,
much like how she holds herself up.
thus we were satisfied with unfinished sketches
and incomplete acapella song covers;
and it definitely was a finished day–
complete with her presence,
photographs taken with cameras and our memory's eyes,
inside jokes about boys and talks about life outside.
the sun is getting lower
as the hour hand is getting higher.

Time continues but we paused.
So I'm up for another round with you, Lou.

I watched her tilt the cup
gently towards her lips
Sipping on her favorite tea—
one made of and for thought.
A late evening of craving kicks in once more.
Letting her eyes settle
on blank pages
of her renowned thick journal.
Yes, I whispered to myself,
Stay this way.
Keep thinking,
keep writing,
keep living.
She continuous in little furies
of the same drink order
and of colorful scribbles,
tearing little pieces of herself
(printed with her personality)
to stick onto the paper.
How much more ink will she bleed,
how much more tea leaves will she drink
to drown out her sorrows,
akin to those inhalers of burning leaves?
Among the words which sustain you,
overdose is the only one which doesn't exist.
You are addicted to tea,
to the world around you,
and to the words around you.
This is you, and this is how you live,
with an end waiting for you,
despite knowing it's only the beginning
whenever you hold your pen.
Your mind, tongue and hands will fade,
but your thoughts and words
will live on forever.

to touch your hand
would take me years
to reach in reality;
not so
when i can try
to touch your heart
with all these letters
that i'm writing to you.
will you remember me by then?

from short notes
thought up on random moments,
to long essays
that take me months to compose
—funny how i'm nowhere
near to being composed
whenever i write for and about you.

but have you heard of the fact
that the unfamiliar faces in your dreams
are faces of people you've seen in reality?
at the very least, i know
i've entered your bloodstream
the moment your eyes
settled on my words, on me.

you might not be able
to remember my words
nor will you remember me
because of them;
however i now realize
i will be able to touch you
even if it's just in my writing
and in your subconscious dreaming.

yes, we'll remember each other this way.

he strums
the steel strings
of his guitar
akin to the strings
of my heart
     that I wear on my sleeve

he echoes
quiet unspoken
memories
through a
loud medley of
melodies
     that his heart and soul bleed

so in time
for him
I'll voice and play
to reach out
and give back
to him someday
     like how he reached out to me

You hold me down
so I won't drown
or drift so far away.

I'm tied to you
like the stars to the moon;
like curious to everyday.

A survivor's raft:
will not capsize
but will stay dry
because I'm safe with you on sea.

An anchor:
does not sink a boat;
it keeps it afloat
—that's what you are to me.

Eighteen―no,
Age is just a number.
Like the page number of a book, her story, her life;
It doesn't matter.
The ending doesn't matter.
The beginning doesn't either.

I read her in chapters, in scenes, in words:
she lives in each and every one.
She is not merely the main character,
she is the plot herself.
And I picture her in my head,
Through mundane moments, rocky cliffs, twisty plots;
She endures.

I don't want to reach or read the ending.
I want to keep reading,
keep browsing through the pages of her.
I want her
to keep writing.
To keep living.

She was so hung up on the moon
that she forgot it disappeared sometimes
and every time they would remind her
to which she would reply
"he's still there
quiet but aware
and i'm still here
waiting, unafraid"

but young one
do you not see the light?
the ever glow of the morn
that causes you to stir
and awaken from your slumber
that shines on you
that you may live one more day

the moon may define the day with its orbit
but it can never be called the day
without the sun

then i thought of you
reaching me
a pale glow
held by slender hands
morning's breath
of dew and dont's
in leaving me alone
and leaving me lonely
looking up at you
is only what i can do

Like the switch button of a 90s television set, the echoes of a knock and a dead bolt’s lock pierces the static air of sharp breathing.

“Define stay, in your point of view, when you can’t even be here to explain its meaning directly to my face,” she pleads with glassy eyes on the verge of breaking down.

She silences a sob with the tearing of handwritten letters and the burning of old photographs.  She won’t need them; she already has every word bound and every pixel branded onto her memory, as much as she tried to annihilate it all.

Behind the closed door, his eyes mirror hers.  His tongue was dry, but careful enough to select the words that would quench their parched throats and hearts.

Will she open a new door? Will he face a new destiny? Are they even in the same corridor, the same floor, the same building?

They’ve been roaming separately, unsure of their directions if one is following the other’s path. Or are they just traveling in circles of pure coincidence?

He knocks again.

“Stay is when my hands or eyes are unable to hold you close, yet you know you’re home.  Because of the way you are anchored to my voice when I say your name, or the way my heart keeps you with me.  

Stay doesn’t always require physical presence.  

I know you are already decided on staying whenever I enter your mind, whenever you think about me. And you know I can never leave your mind, much more your heart.”

She stays put where she is.

The only thing she leaves is the door—open—for him.

Back then
Someone asked
What my favorite poem
And constellation was

I answered with your name

What happens when an artist falls in love with another artist?

She felt as if she wasn’t in love with another artist, but rather, a form of art. He was the kind of art that made artists think that their brains were the ones which conceived the idea of his existence. He was the type of art that made artists pray that their hands were the ones which molded and could touch his face. He was the category of art that made artists wish that their hearts were the ones which loved and could exhibit him to the world. He was the subject of art that made artists realize that their eyes followed him wherever he went.

It was nearing the year-end cold season. Tree leaves were turning a rusty color, ready to peel themselves off from the branches and fall, as the season suggests. This was her favorite time of the year: her being able to wear her autumnal wardrobe collection and her feelings relating to the descending movement of leaves. It was fall. And fall she did as well, for the boy who took up the featured gallery space in her mind of an art museum.

On one of the stone benches across the building of their college, she positioned herself, plugged in her ear buds, pressed play and closed her eyes. The playlist, dedicated to the boy who was a year younger than her, amplified the emotions she felt for him once again.

No, it isn’t strange to like one who’s younger than you, she thought. He is, after all, still towering at least nine inches over me. Crazy how the height of a person could make you tremble yet feel secure, and not to mention, could make them seem older.

He didn’t give the impression of an athlete, especially those fond of outdoors sports with sun exposure. He was pale with a soft glow, much like the first rays of the early morning sun around the time first period starts. He looked fragile with his thin stature. At least that was how her eyes saw him. To her, he was like a prized antique porcelain from the Orient—-a tall, thin, pale jar that held volumes of substance.

Her eyelids snapped open. Like a jar? How absurd, I can’t believe I just compared my crush to a jar, a nonliving object-

Her thoughtful monologue evaporated as soon as it condensed, for there he was, exiting the building. Since she sat directly across the entrance, it seemed as if he was walking over to her.

He was alone. This was her chance. She had pondered on this moment and had planned it out for months. After a bin of crumpled papers, two used pens and a tired brain and heart, she was done with writing her note and poem for him. The papers lay inside her bag, fragile and pale as the person she wrote to and for, yet to be exposed to the outside world.

Letting her eyes float over him, her senses flooded her being as her mind began to swim in the depths of what-if’s and maybe’s. She knew she was as frozen as arctic waters, and she hoped it was the breeze that made her shiver and not his gaze as he scanned his surroundings—her included. She hoped she wasn’t too obvious, at the same time, she hoped he wasn’t too oblivious.

But she could never tell if he was looking at her then. A sun ray peeked out from between the tree branches above and settled on his face, making his eyes disappear almost altogether, like the waning crescent from her favorite moon phases. He raised a long, bony hand to block the glare and soon, he was of her arm’s reach in search of a place to sit.

As much as she wanted him beside her, she didn’t want him beside her in that way. She didn’t want him to sit next to her just because there was space beside her. And she didn’t care if she was being too picky about the scenario. If something is meant to be, it will happen; one way or another.

After seeing her place her bag next to her on the bench (which took up the space he wanted to sit on), he averted his narrowed gaze to the crowded pavilions right behind her and moved on.

Was it a mistake? Was this the chance I missed? Was I supposed to let him sit with me and talk to me? The sudden invasion of such assumptions made her head spin at the reckless act. Now he probably thinks I’m selfish. He might even think I’m reserving the space for a friend. He might even think I’m waiting for my boyfriend, which I don’t have at all. Unless…

This was no time to think up a joke about adopting him as her boyfriend, though; she held the unspoken rule of “paycheck before boyfriend” close to her heart. Soon enough her thoughts settled as he took off his red backpack and sat on the newly vacated stone bench a few meters beside hers.

There it was again: the chance that returned for the second time because it pitied her heart that yearned to get close to his. And there was no denying that she did want to go up to him and introduce herself.

To any passing stranger, both of them seemed to be waiting for someone; perhaps, to be even waiting for each other without them realizing it.

Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t do this. Not right now, not yet, maybe not ever. She didn’t want to disrupt that peaceful life of his. He was the quiet type, and she didn’t want to embarrass herself in case she wouldn’t shut up once she said hello.

Writing in her journal during these unsteady moments made her hands calmer and more focused. Thus did fresh black ink for the boy blossom on a pristine page that very instant. Additionally, because her mind was in turmoil, she penned in expounded bullet forms.

- I want to know him. A lot. I want to know him because I like him.
I like him because I want to know him. I like him. A lot.
- Suddenly, school at 7am doesn’t seem so bad after all.
- He is wearing his navy blue, I suppose knit, pullover. It makes his shoulders wider and makes him taller. He gingerly took his phone out of his pocket, with those careful hands of his. I can imagine him holding my heart the same way. But my heart is the heart of a stranger, so would he be as gentle? I doubt so.
- I’m wearing my navy blue crochet pullover. This is too much of a coincidence. He pulls the navy blue top look off better than I can/do.
- A face like his belongs somewhere else but it seems as if his heart belongs here.
- I don’t care if people think he’s all I have on my mind this very moment. I want to write about him. They might think my writing is useless because it may seem like I’m immortalizing him. But they don’t realize that I write to express my feelings. Yes, my feelings for him will be magnified this way. Yes, my feelings for him will overwhelm me, the more I write about him. Then, before anyone knows it, I have already stopped thinking and writing about him. But for now, I am flooding my head with him. Because one day I know I won’t be able to contain another drop of him. I am flooding my head with him, only to drain him out of my heart in the end.
- I hope he doesn’t know that what I write and listen to have fragments of him. And I dedicate Taylor Swift’s old song Stay Beautiful to him because he deserves it.
- Superficial as my admiration of him may seem to be, I wish we could be friends (?!?) So I can admire him for real. And maybe get him his favorite snack on his birthday without the awkwardness of strangers.
- Wow. He’s looking in my directio-

No way. Is he looking at me? She held her breath again and casted so much of a side glance. It can’t possibly be me; he must have been looking at other captivating girls around me anyway.

The vibration of her cellphone made her tear her eyes away from him; she received a message from a friend whom she was to have lunch with.

Almost there, where are you?

His movement from her peripherals pulled her back to his presence again. He’s packing up? Already? But he just got here a few minutes ago, as much as I want to leave, I want him to stay… if that even makes sense…

He picked up his bag and stood up to walk over to her bench. One step, then two. His long strides were getting to her faster than she thought.

It was too soon. She felt it was still too early. It wasn’t time to get to know him.

Meet me at the carpark, she replied to her friend.

He was making his way to her with his impassive expression thanks to those eastern Asian eyes. Those same, tired eyes which caught her very own two years ago.

In the following seconds she was making her way past him. She held her head high and her shoulders back. He froze in place, confused if she made a mistake in missing him or if it was his mistake into thinking of her wanting to speak to him.

Today was not the day. Then and there she decided she wouldn’t talk to him, give him her note and poem, nor her attention and time. She didn’t even think of the imaginable future, which was unusual of her, if she would give him her number or even her heart in the time to come. One step, then two, she counted; I am walking away from you.

This was as far as she could get close and say hello to him—a walk-by and a silent goodbye.

I want to know you. A lot.
I want to know you because I like you.
I like you because I want to know you.
I like you. A lot.

I hope I'm not too
Obvious
I hope you're not too
Oblivious

Seven years. It has been seven years since that day.

And now here they were in the alfresco of that overrated café, with the man sitting across the lady: he was sipping his black coffee and she, her jasmine tea. The scenario almost seemed impossible in the past, but for someone with her tenacious personality, something ‘impossible’ just meant ‘a little later’ than ‘never at all.’ This moment played by fate was comparable to the persistent rainstorm that forced them to stay together a little longer in the coffee shop than planned.

“I’ve been thinking,” he sighed into his coffee mug, “About leaving this place and heading to the States. Study more on film and acting from the professionals themselves. Get into showbiz of the global standard. Be a real director. What do you think?”

She straightened her posture and settled her cup down on the table, nodding in acquiescence at his idea of endeavors that appeared promising for his future.

“Well… Why not? I say go for it. I support you in that decision.”
He diverted his eyes to hers, trying to read the gaze behind those wide eyes. Though wide and nonchalant they may seem to be, only a few can notice and genuinely understand what swims in those dark depths. Their staring game ended as her voice surfaced once again through the sound of rainfall.

“I support you. If you’re ever wondering why, it’s because I had to make a decision just like that—seven years ago.”

This time it was his eyes that widened, and he placed his mug alongside hers.

“What kind of decision was it? You definitely weren’t aiming to be an actor like me, considering you’re a licensed interior designer, not to mention writer, right now,” he chuckled, leaning back onto his chair.

A soft smile of nostalgia emerged on her lips as she remembered what she wrote on the night of the sixteenth, a day before the significant seventeenth.

April 16, 2017; 11:15 P.M. — I’m satisfied of this unrequited love. I’m happy this is all one-sided. I’m glad everything is ending before it can even truly begin. It would be easier for me to leave him who doesn’t even have the slightest knowledge of my existence, who doesn’t even know my sentiments, who doesn’t even miss me, yet alone think of me. It’s all good; perfect, even. A broken heart is better than two. At least there will be some times when I might let him and his strong hands put my weak heart back together and restore it to me. I’d rather have that than us both losing and scattering the pieces of our mutually shattered hearts. He must never be broken; I need to protect him from being so—I will take myself away from him. I’ve never been any happier to be in a love that’s unknown and unreturned. He will be happy, and I will be too. In the end, his happiness will always be mine.

“I had to leave the places and people I love, to be where I am and who I am today,” she exhaled. “It was tough, but thinking of those moments and people I held onto and appreciated… all of that kept me going.”

“Was it a happy one? I mean, did you find the happiness or ending you were looking for?”

“If I were to be dead honest, yes. More than happy, actually. I’m not just relieved, or satisfied; I’m overwhelmingly grateful. I earned the careers and lifestyle I aimed for. I managed to travel all over the world and see the places and people I’ve wanted to see. My soul roams free, finding home in the many corners of this earth. I’ve finally come home, and this time I know I’m not alone.”

The man was a grown man in a smart-casual attire, but he sure maintained the curious eyes of the child that he furtively kept in himself. Being under his scrutinizing eyes, she reminisced of the same intensity he gave back when they were still twenty-one and on the verge of growing up.

“But what about ‘him’ whom you left behind? Did you come to know him this time, maybe love him too, again?”

She picked up her teacup, providing a little wall between them both, and swallowed the remaining aromatic drops along with the thoughts she wanted to tell him ever since then.

I came to know him—you—but I don’t love him ‘again’. The feelings, which I harbored for you for all these years, never left me even when I left you back then. I know I was told to reach for the moon that I may land among the stars even if I failed to reach it. But I realized I had to reach beyond the moon—the sun, the Milky Way, the entire universe—because I wanted and needed to be worthy of my existence. I wanted and needed to prove myself to myself, to you and to everyone else.

“I did. And I’m happy with how we are right now, even if it seems like we’re back to zero this time round.  Though I’m not sure how my feelings are for him now, if I seek him as a friend or as a potential love interest.”

He seemed doubtful of her response hence did he hesitantly express his last thoughts: “So you’re happy now because you left him previously. But what if he’s the one who leaves this time? Would you still be happy?”

The clouds were emptying now as the pouring rain concluded to a light shower; likewise the people they were surrounded with under the alfresco umbrellas. She knew that she was prepared to answer this question. For the past years, concerned individuals would ask her the very same thing, and for this was she thankful. She herself would recite the words to her reflection every day, much like a prayerful mantra.

He caught a faint twinkle in her eye, a proof of which her answer would be echoing with conviction and it made him realize that those particular words to be said would be one of those things that would remind him of her.

“It won’t matter if he learns how I feel then or now, and yet doesn’t feel the same way. If leaving me would direct him to his happiness, then so be it. Perhaps we aren’t meant to love each other in this lifetime, any other lifetime, or even in parallel worlds, but I still am and would be happy about it. What’s greater than this feeling of being able to love someone so much? Like I said: in the end, his happiness will always be mine.”

I don't think I can ever master the art of living without you even if I'm the reclaimed master artist of missing you

I like to dream of the day
I finally will be able to see you

But I feel like what we have now
is a dream
that I don't want to get out of;
a dream where I can continue
loving you without you knowing
I ever did

And what if we did meet one day in the future?
And what if you never saw me the way I saw you?
That is a reality i don't want to reach
―I'd rather be stuck in this dream alone,
no matter how lonely and one-sided this love is

the radio static of a blank station
the moment raindrops hit surfaces
the gliding of wooden sliding doors
the tick-tock of the clock on the wall
the sounds of leaves flying in the wind
the period of time a guitar is being tuned
the mellow piano scale of moonlight sonata
the echoes of footsteps in an empty hallway
the breathing of a newborn and a dying man
the far-off engine roars of a car on a highway
the supersonics of an airplane flying overhead
the crashing of tidal waves upon the breakwater
the ****** of chimes or frozen icicles on a cold day
the scrape of my pencil on paper as i draw and write
the scratchy noise after a vinyl record finishes to play
the ruffle of bedsheets when someone is restless in bed
the bristle of hair when mothers tousle their children's hair
*his voice

The most tragic story isn't the one written by Shakespeare
or Hans Christian Andersen

It is not about Romeo, Juliet and their forbidden love, dying together

Nor a man, a mermaid and their impossibility to live for each other

It is about a writer and a reader:
Where the writer has written down, in every language, every realistic & imaginable word & emotion for the world
But the reader doesn't even have a chance to read them

The most tragic story is about the reader who can not read, and in the end, the writer who will not write

The most tragic happily ever after is where the reader and writer end each other

some things are not meant to be returned
be it a library’s borrowed book
or hands that cannot hold ours and leave us cold

because we need those things
as reminders of the people
who once borrowed or took what belongs to us

and in our story

i know why i remember you so well:
it is my warmth which you borrowed
and my heart that you took