Every time I look at you, there is this little circle of stars forming a spotlight above you. In a crowded place, your face is the first thing I seek for. Before, you never really mattered to me. I don’t give a **** whether you’re hurt or what. I don’t care if you’re sad or if you’re getting famous. You’re just you and I was just me. But that was then.
Every time we talk to, I don’t focus on your words. I forgot where we are, I don’t care what I’m supposed to do. I just stand there, dumb-founded, staring at your sad eyes, your perfectly carved nose, your strong jaws, your kind face. I only catch a few words of what you are saying—and I wished I focused on your words more than your features because then I could’ve remembered your voice, memorized how you pronounce every syllable. I thought that the slow motion and spotlight thing happen on movies only. I was wrong. I guess life is really a big cinema. We’re the actors and we’re also the audience.
Every time I replay the memories of us together, I feel sad and happy. I want to forget these memories and at the same time, I want them to linger a little longer with excruciating details. Even the tiniest part of the scene, I wish to remember. The little carving triangle on the side of your eyes, the smell of soap on your body, the way you strain your neck every time you sing—all of these.
Isn’t it funny how in just a few months, I changed? Six months ago, your face is just a mere face among the crowd. But now, you stand among the rest. It’s like you’re the brightest star among all the others. Or perhaps, you’re just a mere star. You only shine the brightest in my eyes. Before, I couldn’t really write these mushy things. Heck, my poetry doesn’t even ****. But the day my heart started to acknowledge your magic, I’m almost messed up. My rhymes ****, my words shallow and dreamy, my rhythm fluctuating…like the beating of my heart every time I see you. I stutter like my rhymes, I’m thinking through my heart and not my mind like the words I use recently, and the beating in my chest feels like a stampede of mammals.
This *****, really. Because now, I miss you so much. I can write a twenty-five-page poem about how much I miss the night we stared at the stars, the awkward but funny moments I try to create, your failed attempts at making me laugh whenever I cry (but eventually I smile at how silly you look), all the times I’ll hold my breath every time you wrap an arm around my shoulder, the fluttering in my blood and the chill down my spine every time we hug, the little moment when I look at you and you’ll smile, the feel of your hand in mine, the nights I wish the conversation wouldn’t end in Facebook or in text messages, the attempts of me starting the conversation but only you quickly ending it, and the pang at the pit of my stomach every time I’ll realize, it will all just be this. We’ll always just be friends. Best friends. I’ll always be just like a little sister to you. Or someone you lean on when you have a problem and I’ll always push my feelings aside because I am afraid, if you knew what I really feel, you’ll drift away.
I miss you, and I hope you knew. I wanted to tell you what I feel, but I am afraid everything will end. Perhaps, I will be contented to this friendship because I have come to realize, friendship has a greater possibility of lasting until we grow old. I’m afraid, if we end up together, not as friends, and break up—that will be the end of it. But if we’re just friends…just friends…then I won’t be scared about the future because I know you’ll always be there as a brother, as a friend. And I’ll always be here, consoling you every time a girl breaks your heart, and I’ll always secretly wish it was me who you love and I’ll promise to the wind that I won’t break your heart and I’ll just hope the wind will have enough courage to whisper it to you.
I’m a mess. I can’t decide what I want to happen. I want to be with you but I’m afraid we’ll grow apart. I’m afraid the time will come there’s another girl consoling you every time we fight. I want to be the only one there for you every time you’re broken and sad, every time you’re happy and feeling silly. I just want…
You know, the funny thing is that I want you to find this mushy letter. I want you to read it and know that it’s you I’m talking about. I want you to know that all the poetry I’ve been writing lately isn’t coming from my muse. ****, she’s even getting angry and daring to leave me. She shut the door at my face. I just want to say, “Please, muse, it’s not really a good time for me—for both of us.” Because it’s your fault why my muse is angry. I can’t focus on her inspiring messages. I can’t focus on her string of words. I am more focused on you. I am more absorbed on how you make me feel and I want to jot down these feelings, string it into beautiful words, so that one day I will read it and I’ll feel the magic all over again. I will feel the feelings peeling off the pages and wrapping me in its warm embrace, reminding me what I was feeling while I was writing the words “love” and “you”.
Not really a poem. Just a letter I'll never get to send. And will never be read by the person meant for this.