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Dave Legalisa Apr 14
was it love
or was it just the rain which caused him to run under my umbrella,
ground water soaked through his nike shoes and our eyes locked
“how are we supposed to go home this time?” asked he, in a voice with frustration in which i just shrugged

was it love
or he just longed for a talk. we were both on our screens facing each other through facetime and his cute naruto pajamas got me so jealous.
“i miss her.” said he, suddenly in a frigid voice in which i nodded, slightly twinged because i got jealous twice that night

was it love
or was he just bored that he kept picking me up last november, night after night, saying he missed not me but my shrill laughter and my ears which were always ready to listen about his girl.
“how do i tell her I like her?” asked he, in which i subtly groaned telling my inner self, i wish i was her

was it love
or was it just me who thought there was something behind those little things. little things which weren’t little at all.
we were walking to our favorite place on that starry saturday night of december when he blurted in discontent, “you’ve gone cold.”
i smiled with guilt for i learned that he’s a shapeshifter; suddenly changed from someone i yearned to hold until sunset into someone i wish i never met
Dave Legalisa Apr 14
i want to go to thrift book shops
or to libraries where the only sound i hear is the turning of pages
or to cafés where the aroma of roasted cinnamon screams through my nose
or to an empty beach where i can read as the sun kisses my skin.

just any place where my soul calms down;
where i can create my own reality
from the pages that meet my fingertips.
Dave Legalisa Jan 2021
My skin misses yours
and your scent which smelled of your father’s cheaply Caucasian cigarettes, the only thing I could smell everytime you envelop me with your arms every starry midnight of October. I meant to tell you that you were slightly wrong about me enjoying the cold hard greensward in our neighborhood or of the nights when we drove city by city while listening to a The 1975 song, because the truth, I was more enjoying your company.
But I hate you so much. I hate your tricky innocence, your child-like laugh, your cheaply cut thick hair, your pathetic aspiration to become a well-known contemporary artist on Deviantart and move to another country, and the smell of your sweat—the memory of it.
I also hate the pact we made, that we would only talk of nonsense like how there are so many books in the world but too little time to read them all in a lifetime. Why wasn’t there a time we talked about us two? I tried to decode things like when the night when you told me I was fun to be with and you love seeing my forehead furrowed everytime you mess with me, but it came out a mantrap in the guise of words. I hate you for telling those words.
Yes, my eyes may miss the sight of your warm smile.
But I’d love to not see you again.
Your cold face.
Your reddish cracked thick lips.
Your green hoodie.
I’m slowly falling in love with a boy who I know will never love me back.
Dave Legalisa May 2019
to the moon and back,
you promised a word
that gave butterflies in my stomach.
we formed laughters
through the pit of our tongues.
we talked lines
like of Shakespeare's.
and drew kisses
along the flowers of summer.

to the moon and back,
you promised a word
but you swallowed it whole
like days of winter
that **** every petal,
bald every tree,
and hide the moon.
Dave Legalisa May 2019
you hear his words
like a sugar in your ears.
you feel his promises
like honey beneath your skin.
but little do you know,
lies are on the tip of his lips
like salt
you think of as water,
like raw coffee
that melts in his mouth.
— suddenly you are ashamed of trusting the sugar that turned into salt.
Dave Legalisa May 2019
i used to fear
the space under my bed
how there might be
a monster hungry
for my brain.
now, it's the void
in my brain that i fear
for the monster
already moved in there.
Dave Legalisa May 2019
sometimes are flowers
that grow in variety of colors,
dance among the bees
and bloom among the trees.
but most of the time,
they are gunshots
we often hear from a mouth
of a person who seeks power
over a vulnerable soul.
— be careful with your words
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