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

I never wanted the blue sky nor the night sky
I never wanted the sun nor the moon, even the stars
All this time, all I wanted was the Earth
All this time, I was looking for the Earth.

Someone who'll keep me on the ground
Someone who'll show me that there's so much out there
Someone who'll make me feel human
Someone who's home.

But he deserves more than a mere fragment of dark matter like me
He deserves whatever will make the rivers flow
Whatever will make the trees and flowers grow
He deserves much more.

And as I go back
Hopping from asteroids to comets to planets
I know
There will be nothing like Earth.

Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.

taksil ang mga labing naghahangad ng higit sa dampi
katulad ng buwan sa duyog,
na kung sa madalas
ay hinahayaan ang pagsisiping ng araw at mga bundok sa umaga
may mga minsang hindi mapigilan ang alibuyboy
at pilit isisingit ang sarili sa pagitan ng dapat at hindi,
kapalit ng panandaliang saya; balutin man ng dilim.

ngunit isa pa nga bang kataksilan ang humiling,
kahit na pakiwari ko’y isa kang hiningang hindi mauulit,
na sana kinabukasang paggising ay hindi ka na umalis,
na hayaan mo namang masilayan ko kung paano ka ipipinta ng araw
para naman din makita mo sa liwanag kung paano ka aaralin.

bigyan mo lang ako ng isang sandali
dahil katulad ng buwan, miminsan ding makasarili
baka sa susunod na kinabukasan
kahit ikaw ang tinatangi, sa iba na maghahain.