Don’t breathe deeply.
It’s exhausting.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
I think a lot about
how much strength trees have,
and if they have any extra
I can borrow.
I think a lot about
how if I don’t go to sleep,
I won’t have to wake up tomorrow.

the disease has already spread to your eyes
where its innocent twinkles have now been replaced
by a blazing fire of passion.
   it has reached your hands and feet
and has caused them to be horrified of inactivity.
   it has gotten so worse that the disease has also spread to your
lungs, where every breath
heart, where every beat and
mind, where every neuron is
for your dream and
by the hope that you have.
  
   i think that the virus is highly contagious
because now
i too am infected.
    it consumed my body
and has caused me to be
so sick
of the selfish and superficial
life that i once was living.
  
we are diagnosed with the dreamers disease and
no dosage of discouragement can cure us.
it has conquered our lives and together
we will start a pandemic
and conquer society.

I love him. I've loved him since the time he tied my left skate in March 2013. And it's a love that aches and hurts and explodes. But it's also a love that sings and twirls and laughs for no reason. It's a love that has you crying in the bathroom on a Saturday night but its also a love that has you dancing in the shower on a Monday morning. It's a love that's left me with cramped fingers, dry ink pens and full notebooks. It's a love makes me feel like a thunderstorm. It's a love that makes me feel like a sunset. He's not a home, he's a person. A wonderful one. And sometimes people say things like, "why would you forgive him," or, "why don't you just let go." And I smile. I used to get mad but out of all the types of love this is, it's also a love that's flexible. It's not a love that waits or chases but a loves that's there. It's a love that shares shoulders and stories. If I've learned anything about loving you it has been that if I cannot love you as a lover, I will love you as friend. I will love you messy handwriting, always asleep first, bad haircuts and all. Our love is flexible. Our love is patient. Our love is what happens when you rub your eyes. It's a love that bruises and bleeds and scabs and heals. It's a love that asks, "how was your day?" And would wait patiently forever for your reply. How was your day?

baka hindi niya na nakayanan
ang init at hirap ng araw-araw na buhay,
o baka nalason na siya sa usok
na binibuga ng mga mabahong mekanismo.
baka siya'y basta lang nalulumbay.
kung magdamag mo ba namang
panoorin ang mundo at ang mga tao
tiyak,
malulungkot ka rin.
'di kaya nasaktan siya kasi
hindi mo na raw siya pinapansin?
siya'y nagpaayos at nagpaganda;
nakapustura pa naman siya sa isang
kumikinang na bughaw na bistida
pero hindi pa rin iyon sapat
para mabihag ang iyong tingin,
kahit man lang isang silip.

umiyak si Langit maghapon
at 'di ko mapigilang itanong kung bakit.
sinamahan ko siya at
baka sakaling siya'y tumahan na.
hinandugan ko rin siya ng isang munting ngiti.
naisip ko lang na
baka makatulong iyon
sa pagbalik ng kanyang liwanag muli.
binulungan ko siya ng isang sikreto,
isang sigaw ng aking puso
"anuman ang iyong kulay
ang dilag mo ay kabighabighani
kaya lubos kitang minamahal,
aking panghabangbuhay na kaibigan,
Langit"

It's not that I don't love you. It's the time I read my mom's old journals and every other paragraph included my fathers name. It's that he cheated on every girlfriend he had with my mom. It's that my mom didn't care she was a second choice or a one night stand. It's that my mother never talked to anyone about him after he got married to one of the many girlfriends. It's that she took twenty sleeping pills on the night of what would've been their anniversary. It's that he doesn't even know she's dead.

It's not that I don't love you. It's the couple I overheard in the bread aisle arguing over wheat or white. It's that I heard the woman say a lot of "she" and "****" and I saw her crumble to the ground. It's that he just shook his head and said he was sorry over and over again.

It's not that I don't love you. It's that my best friend is in love with a boy on the other side of the country. It's the morning she took a shower and cried over him. It's that he wasn't even awake to do anything about it. It's that he's always three hours behind and thousands too many miles away. It's that I mean both physically and mentally sometimes.

It's not that I don't love you. It's my geometry teacher, who brought up her husband when she taught me tangents. It's that she also brought up her husband when she taught me the circle unit
too. It's that she gets quiet and smiles after she talks about him. It's that he's been passed away for seven years now and she still has so much to say. It's that she still wears her wedding ring. It's that when she taught me special right triangles, I wondered what her laugh might sound like if he were still here.

What I'm trying to say is; It's not that I don't love you. It's that I do.