I shivered, while you sat still—
across the room, laughing,
asking about my day,
buying me flowers.
My eyes would search,
x-ray through clouds,
to find you—
tall and smiling.

I shivered, while you sat still,
as the AC blasted,
lectures of the gods lingered.
I know you felt it too
when I walked away.
Lucky us—
distance bought fondness.

I shivered, while you sat still,
talking about our lives,
holding me through the night,
smiling at the sky,
watching the fireworks die.
It’s okay.
It might work out again.
The eleventh time is the charm.

I shivered, while you sat still,
next to your wife,
smiling—
and I finally froze.

quite a few severe misconceptions
hey! seriously, that's how you can summarize my life for me!
beyond the glitter, the actual bones of the beast
ugly, somehow disgusting, but they make me up, me.

i sometimes wonder, if i could be poetry
perhaps? – actually we'll scratch that.
i will be overlooked, as this usually is.
will you still write me?

no, i don't want you to write to me
or write on me – though i wouldn't mind
if i could carry it everywhere i'm ought to be.
but still –
write me. write about me.
all that i am, all that i could ever be.

there's multiple, many – oh god, a vast multitude
that i wish to talk about to any.
literally, whoever bothers to listen – and to see.
well, mainly to see, to not go over just once
and simply forget me.

i feel like – i might be a pathological liar
and a people pleaser.
but is it too wrong? wanting to be seen?
and not just as a trophy you can bag anytime,
or a passing moment, when life has you bored in its rhyme,
or even worse – someone just for the pleasure.

will you notice me?
heed to my voice and all that resides within me?
you know what. i think this was enough of 'me'.

the "almost" kind of hurts, you know.
it's always been just that.
at least for me, that's where my clock stops.
i hear about how you like me,
hear about how you want to try it out on me –
why is it always, "the almost of us"
with you & i and i & them?
why does it always have to end?
(even before it has began)

perhaps i indeed am that one tale,
kind of like the midnight rain.
they say they do cherish my existence –
but they never stay up, at least in most cases,
or bother to listen.

i can't focus, or give you my all –
i know that's a flaw at my side.
one that i wish i didn't have to follow like a rule,
settled in the hymns of my body and my life.

this, to the "almost of us" –
why do you always just... give up?
leaving me halfway,
like i'm not even worth the wait.
never did you want to know, maybe,
what really lies at the end of this race.
(will you regret, if i were to say, there weren't a lot of opponents for you to go against, per se?)

being wanted is what i've required –
to be asked for, to be known,
to be understood, not to be shown.
i hear about it in the books
and in the movies and different tales of the hues
of others’ vastly nerving stories –

how when someone likes you,
it lights up this part of you
that almost resembles the feeling of being desired – finally!

contrast is jarring though.
i see you, realize – wow, you see me too?
and yet almost always –
almost wanted, almost pursued, almost something.
and then a beautifully cherished, salty little nothing.

am i really not enough?
or did i do something wrong?
i did pay heed to your existence
even though i might have missed my own.

the unspoken loss –
one that i didn't require.

you know it hollowed me out a bit.
oh, who am i kidding –
it took all of me from me.
maybe you too liked the idea of me,
and not who’s real.
i know it is kinda messy.
at least that's how it's always been with me.

i have always had a habit
to press on those tiny little bruises –
so soft in nature, hurt a bit.
just always the right way, they hit.

i didn't even ask for you or them.
and yet –
the way you fumbled
and had me finding the sweet little nothings.

sigh, i guess i'll just admit
i want to be chosen.
there. the truth out for the world to see.
(i'll hide it to my death and never let you close to me)

i wish you'd pursued me with intention –
and not always the almost trying
only to give up before the trying even came close.
it left me crying, you know.

it's always – the spark that they leave.
never enough to light up a fire.
and then they find flaws within me.
why am i attacked, i wonder?

all i wanted was some real connection.
what of it when i scream
for all those who hear –
you have no right to drop bread crumbs
and leave me to clean them up.
i won't, as i never have.
but please, just once – notice me.
and don't treat me like an ant
like you did to others whom you've had.

everything's worth trying,
one way or the other.
everything's got a fruit waiting –
if you're willing to not just give up.

i ain't just shallow –
feel too deep.
trust me, this isn't something i've wanted.
yet you leave me with the same question,
as they always do –
why am i the one hurting,
when i didn't even ask for anything, or specifically you?

sometimes i'm afraid –
what if i'm being the particular "pick me"?
but i promise to never show vulnerabilities,
even though i speak a lot.

you might call me arrogant,
but all i've done is exist
and ask for something in return –
to cover all that i am,
all behind the makeup on the bruises of my existence.

too much, too cold, too confusing –
i ain't any of those.
but i wonder if i'm worth choosing.

some say i'm that poem
someone doesn't know they remembered
and made memories with until it's too late.

is it too petty of me
to give you such chances and options
again and again?

what's hard to digest though –
is here, the truth written in the blood of my pain,
and all the cuts that you've given me to aid.

they will forever look at me in a particular way –
and half of them who heed to me,
it'll be because they require the things
they need from the kind of me.

never has anyone asked me the questions
i wanted them to ask –
like things that shaped me,
or the ones i liked truly.

the ones i'd love, to be honest,
if it's with someone who stays.
i'd want to be with them throughout
and share those little eye contacts and loving stares.

i need depth.
want to be asked, not just seen.
maybe again, i'm asking for too much.
please forgive me.

i wore the sun for you –
yet you chose the rain.
the same rain i used to be,
but it was one during the day
and not the midnights like i usually erupted.

too much for you to handle.
i wish you'd accepted.
needed no spotlight – just some care.
someone to notice, someone to lend a shoulder.

yet left behind, almost always.
but what can i even say
when it's always been – "the almost of us."

i'll withdraw in silence,
just to be looked at the same way as any other.

might be complex, chaotic – miserly at times,
what if you indeed realize
i'm just barely anything, not even like any other?

is there any place anywhere
where i can fit –
where i belong the most?
perhaps not, perhaps the answer's a never
but i wish you'd loved and chosen me – at least once
just so for once i could feel something
other than just always being the ghost.

there's hope in goodbyes
as they say, a chapter ends —
a new one begins.

but i've come today with a different tale —
take it as a story,
a broken poem,
or an unsent mail.

got a couple good phrases,
jumbled up —
only i know the feeling.
can't seem to sense entirely
their origin,
and so i'll try to pen them down,
hopefully bring them a meaning.

no, i ain't broken-hearted,
and no, i ain't going through the same period —
but this comes from the perspective of all those.

let me specify —
a character from the movie i recently watched,
a person on the roadside i walked upon,
a stray cat who waited —
since forever, it seemed —
for her babies to talk,
and millions of those
who waited for something
that wasn't there at all.

a closure.
an answer.
a little bit of understanding.

but here i am,
left to question it all —
especially your disappearance.

those unanswered texts,
the quiet ache,
the agony of play pretend.
ghosting, the new age calls it —
was that even an ending?

there's a bittersweet melancholy,
hoping for something that's barely there,
yearning with the i'm doomed realizations,
and the gentleness with which grief
seems to give me a hug —
it is rare.

i'd wished it could be like
waiting for letters in a war —
knowing they would meet the soldiers
even in their fall,
knowing there was someone writing,
waiting upon them.

i've never been waited for,
held,
promised —
been just a lost cause.

the world resonates with such:
echoes of conversations,
words left unspoken,
unseen messages
pretending to be left unread.

people fading from each other's lives
like mist in the mornings,
fungi growing on breads.

i've talked to silence,
left by my own.
quite a few said goodbye,
most left me forlorn.

i stayed —
same places,
old memories,
holding onto things
that didn't plan on returning.

the destinations became ghosts of the past —
yet i kept writing to the same addresses.

a few didn't even leave —
just faded
into sweet little nothings.

hope, hope,
oh this dear solitude —
hope remained despite the static.

i'm stitching this up
with the remnants of what i once was.
this ain't no monologue,
written in the melancholy of not chosen —
left for yet another job.

an irony,
a metaphor,
no reasons — just because.

i intended to keep it
as a piece
that reminded me of being haunted —
with the memories,
and the facts,
and the presence of a human
that held me to the edge.

and yet,
i find no anger,
no resentment,
no ill will —
no praying of curses to befall and end them.

there's only love,
perhaps longing —
belief that if it existed,
it had the right to be termed
as ended.

only if there was a full stop —
just like at the end of phrases,
sentences,
and even chapters —
a single dot.

it could have helped me move on.

but no —
i'm left,
standing in the middle
after being promised to be met halfway.

never intended to be here —
i'd said so in the first place.

one-sided letter,
bonding,
or heartache.

there's acceptance in solitude.
i'll wear the letters of goodbye,
despite knowing
you never said it.

please don't return
only to tell me —
despite no closure —
it was the silence
that aged.

my brain bleeds for him
the thoughts of him stabbing my mind
creating cracks of light within the carefully
maintained façade

and i let it happen

strands of your hair linger
intertwined with my veins
cold, they were before
now warmth is all they feel

and even though your veins are gone
your temperature remains
my body refuses not to
bathe in your remains

yet, it still shivers
by even just the thought of cold
fearing that what once was gold
will all turn into mold

your veins
are all it yearns for
to it, time is so serene
too quiet to ignore

every blemish on your skin
every word once said
everything that happened since
every gesture, every breath
is one strand of hair
carefully sewn within
a body of despair

I am a man made of-
      tragic love stories
      of those that never last,
      and of those that never was
      the sad love, quietly burning,
      beautiful and forever yearning...


      -ManInBlack

You’re a flower I cannot pick,
        a love so unrequited,
        it makes me feel so sick

I can only look at you
      and admire you from a distance,
      living through my eyes, only by a glance

To see you is enough to make my day,
      oh what a lovely thought,
      your beauty, its more than I can say

You’re a pretty-pretty flower,
        an everlasting one,
        an unrequited love,

        burning like the sun...


        -ManInBlack

Both sending letters,
they tore their love apart—
each line like a "don’t leave me,"
they looked like real love letters.

Reading between the lines,
you’d see who played the part.
The strange thing is, the culprit
was not of either heart.

Jealousy, the silent fire,
gave context and reasons,
possessing their prey,
it moved without control.

Can love be found again,
by one who shared the blame?
Can a fractured soul find wholeness
through forgiveness, love, and name?

Your sorrowed letters shake me,
each farewell cuts me through.
Some of us never get letters—
not of friendship, nor of loss,
much less of love from you.

Los dos enviando cartas
rompían su relación,
parecían un no me dejes
reales cartas de amor.

Mirando entre palabras
verías al culpable,
lo extraño del culpable
ninguno de ese amor.

Los celos crean
contexto y razón,
poseyendo a sus víctimas
accionan planes sin control.

¿Será posible volver al amor
siendo un coautor de tal error?
¿un espíritu quebrado unirá sus trozos
con palabras de amor y perdón?

Conmociona mi espíritu
tus tristes cartas de adiós,
algunos no recibimos cartas
ni por quiebre, ni amistad,
menos siquiera por amor.