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The pool of rain shadowed the sun, dancing with a tepid demeanor. City lights' glamour reduced the light of the sun—melancholy was evident on her face, accompanied by the distinguished incorporeal's breath of air. The late-afternoon tea and dried-out smoke of snowy November. 

It turned into night; the sun was still blatantly drowning in the pool of light, where a small trickle of its shadows tantalized the mockery arrayed in her face. Followed by the sickness in her stomach, pinching herself as she naively believed he loved her for all she is. 

After all, he was the one who called her a goddess and even paralleled her in the universe in which Aphrodite takes part. Surprisingly and naively, still believed conspicuous lies. It scarred her. A mountain that cannot be climbed; a river where blood flows continuously; a garden full of thorns. The face of a fool. 

The glamour wore off when he saw her on stage, where all of his queens and muses were. He wasn't even paying attention to her, and yet she was the only one who performed on stage—she rose and fell; she sang and moved like a goddess, surprising and naively believing he could take back her youth. 

He watched her rise. 
He watched her fall. 
He watched her lose her life. 

She hopelessly believed, with her skin and bones, that he'd choose her this time. He didn't.
if my life were a song, it would be goddess by laufey.
You hit me like a wave. I drifted away, coming into the shore, and lied there with nothing but my naked eyes; the sun covered my cold, barren body. Radiating sunshine and weakness as the sea called over me, you traipsed and towered over my sight, blinding me with your ivory skin lit as the match fired the sky.
The waves in the sea squished me in like a soft linen blanket, wrapping me all over like the comfort of a mother. My hands were trembling as you stood there unmoving, and the melodies and blasphemous beats almost dug me out of my ears; I couldn’t even do anything. You were there like an angel lost in his epiphany. It was as if a goddess were in front of you; your eyes spoke as you became a slave to your own wrath, worshipping what was in front of you. You laid your eyes on me like I was some kind of song you could not decipher.
You stood there, solving the creeps and mysteries and finishing the last verse of a poem you will never read again. You hit me like a wave, and I drifted away, hoarding memories left astray. You were there, godlike and lost, and even the sun loathed your fire. You burn like a match, your skin a stain of crimson—of sunshine and weakness. You called me, but I did not answer.
It was cold, and I loathed it. Perhaps it was the month of October where the enigmas of night lay open, and achingly, my flesh was found in humiliation. I continued to bleed, on and on.
What is love, if not impeccable grief?
What is love, if not that one dreary night of October?
What is love, if not broken bones and bruises?

Grief is sweet and heavy. Abundant and empty. I remember grieving and feeling everything all at once. Without shedding tears, my heart continued to know the heaviness of my silent pleas. I remember writing pieces that do not make sense, and by the end of the day, somehow, they do. I’m glad it's over.

Song: Where’s My Love - SYML
Coleen Mzarriz Dec 2023
Soft saccharine kisses and the way you held my hand—the gleam of the sun were clenched by the wistful glamour of your lips; and I stare at you, my dawn in the midnight sky.
Your countless palaver I can hear, forever lost in the starry eyes of yours—a nest of novice thoughts—I smile at you, my rather gauche. You were a dreamy night, and I was an afternoon tea—flat-out boring and tasteless. But I am also a poet, and you were my muse.
I was a copper, and you were jet black with charming brown eyes—and so I thought, “He’s so pretty, I could cry. He’s so dreamy, I could call him mine.”
If only I could give you these angelic kisses and let you feel these unearthly lips, lulling you with reverie and the dizzying glow of mid-December. The moon looks over us, and all he can sense is my longing, longing, longing.
I wish I could give you anything you want, the life you prefer, even the dying stars and the bright moon.

I wish you kind and beautiful days, my dear friend. My orange cat.

Song inspired me to write this: Midnight Sky - Unique Salonga
Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2023
Do you know I’d circle around the globe, just to be greeted by those lovely eyes of yours?
I'd cross even the sharpest nails I will step on just to hear and carry your gentle voice.

Vacillate between the warmth and the cold.
The sea and the clouds—even the steep avenue or the slippery cobblestone—just to get near you.

For I will carry all your deepest sins and cleanse them with these calloused hands—far enough to call it love.
My heart will leap from me the moment our eyes meet again for the ninth time.

And surely, the vastness of the sea cannot amount to all the words I can make up for you.
Even the most tedious piece will be turned into a faithful painting—so long in memories.

It will remain just that.
A silent, cacophonous whisper—inside of it was all the love I have stored for you.
It will remain just that.

When the time finally freezes the moment you walk in, my eyes will still be locked into you.
And I’d cross once again the sharpest nails I could step on.
I wrote something. It has been 136 days and I am still here.

Unknown/Nth - Hozier
Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2023
I’ve been told by a friend to wait here.
As long as I stay here, you’ll be back past five o'clock.
I’ve waited—you came and opened the door.
It’s true; now I will dedicate my nine lives to you.
"She drinks her tea by midnight and lulls herself to sleep. You should waggle your tail and lie beside her. Every day except for Saturday." My friend laughed rigorously when she finished that statement.
"Why can’t I play with her every Saturday? I asked her, trying to grasp her evading eyes.
"Just because," she shrugged and tried to climb the tree.
"Wait!" I hissed, but she’s nowhere to be found now.
I did everything she told me to do. Eat my food past lunch, play with my worn-out toy, and wait for her to be home.
At the exact moment the cruel sun rose and the light hit my body, I waggled my tail and lied beside her. Unfortunately, I forgot it was Saturday today.
I called her name, distinctively meowing in a weird manner. I cackled slightly; she wouldn’t understand. Biting slowly with her calloused hands and licking the side of her face, she still won’t wake up.
And I meowed until there was no sound left of me. My dear Celia, wake up, for you have to give me food now.
You still need to bathe me and play with me at the park. We’ll still wait for the night to come and watch TV.
Oh, Celia, I’d still spend my nine lives with you. Where have you been since I slept last night?
I’d still wait for you here at the table, near the window. Where the trees dance the delicacy of their sickening leaves. Oh, how we both hated the crispness of those brown leaves.
Oh, how you knew how much I hate autumn and how much I undoubtedly love the breeze of winter. The screeching of the winds and the snow falling onto the ground, where we both scrutinize its unique aspect. We were the same.
How you were covered in snowdrops, and you’d throw me inside the snowpack. I’ll hiss, and you’ll laugh.
"I told you not to play with her every Saturday," my friend whispered, almost with a faint cry. There was a hint of longing in her voice.
"You haven’t told me the answer, Ong."
"She grieves in her dreams, my friend. He visits every Saturday, spends a day with her, and goes home at exactly midnight. She’ll wake up tomorrow, bud," she answered in agony.
Who's he? " I turned to her, but she vanished once again.
Celia, I will love you for the rest of my nine lives. I’ll wait for you tomorrow. It’s okay to grieve for now.
I’d still wait for you here at the table, even though it’s autumn. We both got to accept that winter is already over.
It’s my first life with you in autumn.
I haven't written for a month, and this is what came to me today: I have been struggling to find myself lately, but I found myself falling in love with cats. And how badly I want to take care of them. Unfortunately, my mom doesn’t want to own a cat. It’s fine. I’m still in my 20s. I’m young; soon enough, I’ll be able to take care of a cat.
And I’ll love them for the rest of their nine lives.
In another universe, I have a cat named Yang.
Also, I’d like to thank this song for giving me an idea.
Song on the Beach: Arcade Fire and Owen Pallett

Thank you for reading! :)
Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2023
A little crumpled.
Fold it in half.
A bit dry from the crevasses of its body,
still, it’s a blank slate.

There’s a table placed beside it.
A warm chocolate milk on the right side of the table, the rain poured, and winds blew.
A pale hand reaching for it.
Skin like ivory, laced with thick, intensifying wires all over her body.
It connects, and there’s a pulse.

A pull.
Observed from his perspective, there’s a gravity,
it is a button, or power itself.

Whether from the weather or words born with swords.

It’s a little crumpled,
folded into eight shapes.
He bled as a form of escape
and she drank her warm chocolate milk.
Alongside it, there was filth.
I have been writing for years and it became who I am today. but sometimes, there are words and metaphors I cannot write and it frustrates me, not being able to write something. not being able to explain it in such a manner that it will come as beautiful, pleasing, warm, and genuine.

but today, I tried.
Coleen Mzarriz Jul 2023
A jarring, disturbing day for a summer breeze in mid-July. The streets were covered by the footsteps of people hustling, hoping they’d be early for their 8–5 job, and babies crying when their mom left for a meeting that started at 11 a.m. And I bought my favorite coffee—a caramel latte.
It was as if my worn-out hands, which have been clawed out by the hand of the disrespectful ghost who’s been living inside my apartment, coveted the sun and thought it was time for him to be kissed by the summer and embraced by the coldness of the winter—it’s coming and it’s starting to cry a little.
Drop by drop, until my jacket seeped the harsh trickle of the rain. Terribly enough, I was standing near the pedestrian lane, and the universe ribboned the strings between me and this disrespectful ghost. Mind you, he was a stranger once. And we both looked at each other.
He was waiting for the bus, and I am too. He’s on the second seat, and I’m on the left, near the window. Third row. He loves music and likes to listen to it when he’s bathing. He loves writing just like I do, and he loves to hum his favorite songs just like I do.
He loves basketball, but he rarely plays, and he loves to daydream and has two imaginary friends. He loves to hold my hand and kiss me on the cheek. But then he died. And he smells like the earth—with thick thorns covering half of his body, bleeding through his shirt, and losing his smile.
But then again, the earth sent him back, and I started to mourn. I no longer know his name, but I mourn for him. It’s time for this ghost to go, and it happened that we’re both on the same bus, and he was disrespectful enough to not inform me that he’s leaving again.
Perhaps I’ve come to terms with the fact that tenants like him will come and go, and their loose threads will always be tied to me. I’ve yet to let go. He’s dead, and he’s now a stranger who once walked down the street.
My caramel latte is now lukewarm, and I threw it away, but I was early for work. What a jarring, disturbing day.
Perhaps in another universe, we’re both seated in the same row and we’re holding each other’s hands.
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