Slow, steady, and unhurried steps of her feet that almost floats in the air — while her body lies
on the couch of her old apartment. Her apparition was lost on the airy night of December.

Her feet turned cold and weary, her breath smells like fury and her heart grew solid and unsteady. It beats just the sound of the drum rolling, her pulse radiates of fear, and her lips shut and dry. She turned around and her body keeps still and sounds asleep. As if, it was a normal night and just and peaceful.

She flew right through the door and stroll around the street of Evergreen. It was silent and streetlights turned off. It was smokey and dark. The pavement seems boring and bleak—her dress swayed and the cold air seemed welcoming to her chest. She passed by several houses and happened to find a bookshop. It was vintage and awkward. Its structures did not seem appealing nor look like someone owns them. But she manages to get past through it and books welcomed her—like how ghosts welcome their favorite strangers.

She passed by some old and modern books, carefully slipping her tender fingers to its hardcovers, flipping through endless pages, and breathing the dusty nostalgic aroma of the '90s. “It never gets old,” she says. She flips and flips, flies through the stairs, and find more pages. Circles all the important words, digesting all the heartfelt quotes—this has been her dream.

Suddenly, the lights filled the room, her eyes closed and her heart is racing through her pulse. An unknown hand grabbed her and pushed her to the wall. “Who are you, young lady?” Said the man with a gritted teeth.

Slowly, the woman opened her eyes, and there in front of her revealed a young man with hazel eyes and the smell of strong coffee in his mouth. His aromatic smell of vintage soul and modern scheming look. She dared not to speak but the man in front of her just pinched her pulse hard and peered at her.

She dared to look at him, and they both just stared at one another.

“I- I just want to read books,” she pouted. And the man avoided her face.

“But this place does not exist anymore.” He cleared his throat and loosened his grip on her.

“I- I'm just traveling by,” she added.

“I know. I am too.” He said, avoiding her gaze.

“You're an apparition too?” The woman asked. And she waited for a proper response but he just gazes upon the empty shelf around her.

“To go back,” He whispered.

“Are you the owner?” She asked once again, hoping she will get an answer from a stranger.

“Go home or I might do something you will not like.” He turned to her and gawked.

The woman sighed and went home with questions and strange memories she did not know she has.

It was the second night of December and she floats in the air. Passed by several houses and went to the old bookshop. She continued reading books and the man found her again. But this time, he was silent and cleaning around the area. The woman smiled and tried to talk to him.

“What is your name, young man?” She asked. The man froze and stood there, stiff. She laughed and did not expect an answer. Rather, she went upstairs and kept reading.

“John,” He held out his hand this time, formally acknowledging her presence.

“Emilia,” She smiled. Both of them spent the night reading books and talking about modern literature...And philosophy.

On the third day of December, she did not wake up through her apparition. Instead, she woke up with a soul, feet's touching the ground, and a face that is mirroring her reflection through the mirror. She exhilaratingly went out to find the bookshop, passed by several houses but did not found where the place was. She went back to her old apartment and tried to locate the bookshop.

However, it was only an empty lot she found when she tries to find it by heart and soul. The disappointment was evident on her face and her heart beats rapidly—ceased brows and lips shut tightly.

“John?” She whispered.

“John?” She calls him out again, hoping he'd hear her.

She steps into the burnt-out place. It was only an empty lot with wild grasses scattered and a tombstone lying there, in dust. It was named after Emilia Blythe. Suddenly, a familiar arm hugged her from behind. It was John, and her tears swelled around her eyes—while her heart ache and memories flooded her mind.

“I couldn't save you back then, Emilia, so I went back from the past and live in my dream to see you.” He whispered with comfort and longing.

“It's not your fault, John. I am sorry I forgot about you.” She cupped his face and peck him on the forehead.

“We can work this out and live forever in my dream.” He said with pleading in his eyes.

“But I am only a fragment of your imagination, John. You can let me go. It's not your fault,” Emilia said with conviction.

“I am just a vintage soul, a wayfarer amid the longing dawn and I am a fragment of your imagination. This place exists but it's all in the past now, you can let me go,” She added and let go of his hands.

“Wake up, dear.” She bid him her last goodbye.

John woke up with his heart racing and hopeful eyes. The people around him gathered and created strange noises in which he got confused, he opened his eyes and saw familiar faces around him.

“Thank God you're awake!” An elderly woman hugged him and kissed his face.

“It's a miracle you woke up after five years, son.” He remember his Father's voice and held his hand.

“Where's Emilia?” He asked, hoping he'd get an answer.

“She's gone... Remember?” Her mother broke the silence.

“Like 10 years ago, son.” She added.

He went back to the old bookshop, where Emilia was there. He traces all the books she touched and flipped through the pages where she left.

It was old and aromatic. It was vintage yet modern. The good thing was, his parents renovated the bookshop while he was sleeping for 5 years. He went upstairs and found the section where Emilia was always staying. He scanned all the books and touched every single page of them.

He flips through the pages and found a quote there, it was written with a bleak ink,

“We will meet again,


your old vintage soul”

He smiled and ripped the page out, then the door clicked and the bell rang. He immediately went downstairs and greets the woman in front of him.

“Can I borrow books from section 5-” The woman was cut off when John hugged her. Her face was confused and red.

“Emilia?” He whispered.

“Uh, I'm Emily,” She awkwardly answered.

John laughed and gave her an apologizing look.
“You look like someone I know,” He said.

“Sorry,” He added.

“No worries,” Emily answered with a half-smile.

And they both smiled at each other.

My mouth widened its passage to yawn out the drowsiness,
in my dizzy mind and endless tickling of my eyes closing—
while I still fight for my consciousness to live,
while she was out there playing fire with the rain.

Where the time goes back and she meets me from the tree of souls,
from her tears there comes a glimpse of tomorrow, and from her black silky hair,
there comes a defying gravity
of sleep and reality.

I once entered a door of hope—where the dead sleeps and live
from heavenly green pastures,
trees alive and birds whistling
a great melody of harps
and angels' tune,
there I saw her—and the time stops,
the bell rang, the place filled with the tricky lights,
from the tree of souls,
there is one key that holds the glimpses of yesterday and tomorrow.

I yawned out the momentum of my blissful sleep
waking up from a deep heavy dream,
the clock ticked, the trees danced, the winds hustled, and
I danced on the curtains of life.
I kept a straight face and distanced myself
from the harmony it brings,
my body sways and my voice sang
a melody with an unfamiliar tune,
my heart swelled and I saw her.

She slowly stride her feet and welcomed me her arms, while I let out the tears
and cry crystal diamonds, wiped it with her swollen hands—
she let out a laugh I am longing to hear,
“It will be over, I promise.”

The intense surge of the cold waves seeped in through my bones. It lingers and its bitterness was too rigid in my tongue. Breathing in the water was shallow, closing my eyes so I can swallow the saltiness it gives—the oxygen to breathe.

No thoughts, only an empty head with choking memories of an angel saving a lost sheep—in the vast ocean where the blue seems acquainted and welcoming to strangers. The moment I was out of the water, I still cannot breathe.

Did the ocean hear my longing? The angel's face was like a bottle of old wine, tastes bitter in one's mouth. His wings were heavy, flying through the midnight sky—his face soften as he gazes upon my merciless eyes. I turned away not wanting to lock eyes with him—for the sky forbidden me to taste him.

He was an old wine, living through the dusty shelf to be displayed—when it is his time, his light shines and his wings were like bitter snow, swaying across the lonely sky—his lips a pink-colored cloud and his skin as white as the velvety mists surrounding us.

He then turned to me and said, "I will be your water to breathe from," and gave me the most genuine kiss to breathe from the dryness of my mouth. And tears scattered along the lines of my ceased brows, the satisfaction, the mystery of this longing—the space from where I can breathe again.

The drunken eyes that were staring straight into my core regained his broken wings and I fell right through the deep waters. I closed my eyes, for soon he will fly through the whole universe, and I will be the stranger who saved him.

I breathed in the water, giving me a sense of satisfaction, an old friend of memories swayed along the waves and the coldness it gives, a bittersweet vice and a comforting thunder from which it is like a song. I fell and fell 'til I was in the middle of just drowning; somehow it feels warm and good.

His face flashed right in front of my eyes. His goodness, how he tastes, how I long for him—how mysterious his eyes were. How he is an old friend of grace and death disguised as an angel.

How I can breathe in the water and through his lips. Somehow, I am not a stranger to this place.

I once saw a deer passing by
its eyes intriguing and delicate —
he was walking unhurriedly while the lights
behind him swerve and dance pokily
while I gather my hands to touch him,
he turns around and ran away.

I once saw a shadow passing by
its being brought chills to my bones —
he was walking behind me, unhurried
while there was no light dancing around us
even the winds stopped breathing;
until I remember, he was me.

I once saw a man passing by
its presence gave me comfort and light
he was running away —
I asked him, “Where are you going?”
He answered, “To the future,”
I smiled and turned to him, “Let's go,”
He held my hands and we both ran together.

I once saw a mirror echoing back at my voice
its existence drove my mind and broke
into tiny pieces — while I go bewildered and
do not know what to do, he laughs and shatters
into fragile broken pieces,
he cries out and I ran away.

I saw the deer passing by
its eyes gentle and noble —
he steps and steps,
until he was facing me
behind him was the lights that stopped dancing
and the wind hustled a great bone-chilling harsh cold,
“You can remember now?”

He asked, “Yes,”
I told him and ran away
to the future, I come and all the shadows and mirrors broke and moaned a great pain.

I remember him now.

With heavy breaths and lonely hiccups
empty cups
and busy filled streets
of few steps walking
not minding the world's sharp eyes.

Sometimes,

with a free bargain in one's shoulder
to carry on with the clouds and the sunny day while
the sun smiles at you.

Sometimes,

it is with the rain that gives a heavy sack filled with empty bargains, once,
at the vile winter
while spring day comes for a long time.

Sometimes,

it is without a sound
that one's self creates a melody and a song
exposed to the world's naked eyes
and it is with the heavy breaths that you can continue,

sometimes.

When time passes and the strings
of her branches
harden from its spot —
life continues to go on.
Even when the music stops playing,
time never quit its soliciting
bids for tragic goodbyes.

The blue oak tree stood tall
while her leaves falling out in Autumn
and a forlorn hymn plays around her —
time is crucial and the world a rhetorical
place of wisdom and grief.

She stood there everyday
in stories and legends —
her body art of desecration
with letters carved unsent,
she stood there, still.

The blue oak tree
danced on the mist of the sky —
the clouds swished its billowy mass
“life continues to go on”
it passes, with certain reasons
and uncertain excuses;
the blue oak tree
keep dancing in stillness.

The song stopped and
she stood there,
hardened her branches
while her leaves keep falling out
in Autumn,
and the wind in stillness —
there, she stood in years,
without a song, without a trail of dance,
without a life.

The blue oak tree died
while her body is used as an art of unsent letters.

Stolen stares as she passed by
the city lights and countless hues of
shadows departing by the cars slowing down
and fast — she can recognize and sense their beings.

Though there was some music playing back and forth,
she can still hear the gasp and woes of these
shadows passing by the cars slowing down
and fast — ghosts of the buried.

The road is brisk and dismissive with the vivid pigments
of the city lights and the moon following every pace, even then the shadows keep on following her,
telling her to confess a sin
she hid so well, of buried and of a song
she wants to sing.

These ghosts keep on following her
in the city lights, they show their faces
and hid their remorse,
for she will be one of them soon
if she will not sing
her favorite song now.

She took out her notebook and penned
a note — of a deadly sin she must confess
to an angel and let it fly across his way
for she must live in freedom soon
and sing her favorite song.

In the same city lights,
there sat the man
of whom she loves, once was a ghost of the past
of buried regret and woes.
Maybe then if he
composed his song, ’tis then he will be free.

In the city of lost forbidden lights, there are two ghosts
passing by the cars slowing down and fast —
blind senses and dying requests to angels
for maybe then, they will be free from the burial
of the dead.