You told me about the ghosts
that lived inside your bedroom,
I said I wasn't there
to send them away.
You thought I couldn't fix you
and you were right—
you didn't need fixing from anyone else.
There was a bit of you
that survived the shipwreck
and that was where you would have started.
I was there the whole time
waiting
outside
staying silent.
Until I heard your window cracked open.
And now your ghost,
it lingered.
It made its own haunted house
except the house followed me wherever I go.

You are a fool to believe
that I am permanent. Like waves,
it is the lips of the shore I know
how to kiss and I do flee
when I want the depth
from within.
You will stay, you say.
But I know your face,
it's from long ago.
Know
that this protective shell
will not flinch.
You will know
about Jupiter,
its secrets.
Days later, it will collapse.
To ease you of your pain,
I will write you a book but
I will rip the last three pages
you will carry it back to me
but you will find me
gone.

I tried to warn you about my cold hands
but stubborn, you were
you stained my bed with your voice
its eyes weighed on me as if to warn you
about the comings and goings
of the monster that they held.
I was this wolf howling in the night
you mistook that as a cry for help
when I only meant to send you running.
I gave you warning signs.
Your love still overdressed.
I don't know, I said, what to do with it.
But come near.
We shared the same cold
and it made us both warm.
But my hands remembered who you could be.

I am overwhelmed
in a way that I am both happy and afraid
and I only want to be cautious.
I want to say that this,
this is the part where I will throw
my coldness to the ground,
be naked and vulnerable,
be the warmth that was always hidden
beneath the skin so watchful.
I want to run away,
but how do you run away
when there is no more reason for you to run?
What do you tell your legs?
What do you tell the places you haven’t touched
but promised to?
I want to stop.
I want not to dream
but to look outside and see reality waiting.
I want to look it in the eyes
and promise it that I am ready
to take back the trust and learn how to use it.
I feel vast, I feel limited.
I want my body to burn
if that means feeling the warmth,
but winter still feels like home.

I want the kind of peace
that doesn't take me back to the island
but instead allow me to look at the ocean
that is gazing at the sky with adoration and respect.

Still, not far away, I see fear sitting in a rock, waiting for me.
Its eyes say there are still things left to burn—
last night it was as if some kind of monster
ordered me to set my house on fire
so it would not expose how many times I mourned
not for a person
but for the time wasted acquainting them
with the sea I carry within.
I was afraid burning the whole thing
would left me empty again,
so I stopped admiring the flames.

Now a wave sprouts where I am
and does not tremble when it presses its body to mine,
like a lover unafraid—I want the kind of peace that does the same way.
The kind that swims
and truly
sets
me
free.

There are times when
I feel that I have already forgotten about you
but those don’t happen as often
as when you pass through me like a feeling
going about your business
touching my core, wounding it
and moving away without warning.
I see you
in lights dancing in my room.
For a moment, what bliss.
But lights fade, too, without notice.

This morning I left the kettle screaming.
It is hard to listen to any sound
other than confusion
which is louder. Now there is a fly
on my fantasy book. How I want to **** it
yet how I want to let it linger a bit longer
to distract me
from trying to understand you
like a language,
but failing.

Have I told you about my wasted nights?
You used to know about those nights.
Now I only talk to you in memories.
One night I sat by the window
trying to feel only the wind,
but there you were again
reminding me of the day you told me
you were stuck for four hours in traffic.
It was a Friday night in EDSA,
I laughed that it surprised you.

Tell me about the ghosts in your bedroom
and I’ll tell you about mine. Tell me once again
about that dream you had when you were nine.
I promise I will listen this time.
Tell me you’re close by
or tell me you’re far from here,
just tell me anyhow.
For I have been locking my doors
hundreds of times,
but I want you to know
I still have my windows open.

I knew you were about to leave.
I knew about the rose you plucked in the garden
that caused your fingers to bleed
You told me you'd be gone for a while
so you could take away the thorns
and no holes would be seen in your hand
once you tried to reach the forest
that was resting on mine.
But I've heard that before.
I've heard farewells
disguised as something beautiful,
something rare.
I knew about the songs that fell silent
when it heard the other one stopped listening.
I knew about the doors that opened
and then got slammed
by the hands it let in.
As you have said, I've had forest on my hand,
but what I heard was the fire you tried to soak me in.
I never told you about the rain that also burned inside me.
You will not be my destruction.