Let us meet…

…in her room- the forsaken, darkest room I have ever been in my whole life.

At the place where our worlds collide, where we could finally understand each other after months of throwing punches. The bruises, bruises and scars I have got from those fights. It was endless and nobody raises the white flag yet until now. You will hear me say that it’s all fine.  This rendevous would be short-lived, I reassured you. Like a lighted match extinguishing itself after seconds of lighting it up.
    Let us meet wearing our work clothes. The dirt from the outside dimension still clings on the corners of our clavicles. Let us meet even if I could still smell myself bearing the rancid scent of antibiotics and isopropyl alcohol. Your breath smelled like blueberry fields from all the artificial smoke you were inhaling. You still smelled the same- you smelled like you. How I wish you were still the same to my eyes because you secretly died and the cemetery is my mind.

  You probably didn’t know I had a new tattoo on my inner arm. You didn’t know I lost tremendous amount of weight. Heck, I didn’t even  know you still wear the shirt I gave you before I left. We are once again strangers sharing the same bed for a short while. 

  I asked myself if I still loved you. In all honesty, all those butterflies died a long time ago. I don’t feel what I felt the first time we shared a room. Love? I don’t want to feel love anymore. I probably don’t deserve it, you are probably not worthy of my time anymore. 

 I don’t even care if you touched other woman. All I need is the temporary adrenaline. When all of this is over, I will go home and will forget I ever knew you again. 

  We’re the only ones who knew we meet. What scandal it would be if anybody knew we are meeting at Sofia’s place. She didn’t even know, nobody knows. Nobody will know.

You’re The Flag of China…

… when I thought you’re just the flag of Japan.

I should’ve noticed all the jeopardy that would come my way; I should have not let you in my life.

All these years, I have helped you. My piffle mind self-incinerated itself because of you but I managed to wake up and survive… barely.

I succumb to episodes and bouts of death, pitying myself and living with sadness every waking day. I couldn’t even lift my feet from my slumber; I often told you I was exhausted, you ignored it. I am deeply sorry if I didn’t make yourself heard or seen because all that was in front of me was darkness, like swimming in a dark, deep abyss of loneliness that all of my energy was focused on me, myself, and I.

I couldn’t blame you, I wouldn’t blame you if you left. But you shouldn’t blame me either if I begged and cried because I was saving what was good that was left. I endured all the harsh words, all the disgusting things you have told me to salvage everything- to save us. During the denouement, it was my last energy. I broke down and wanted to jump from the 3rd floor of the very building I was working because I had no hope, my lifeline left me broken and torn into pieces. My head couldn’t digest the fact that a flawed human could tolerate himself finding another lover in just a day of wanting space. You should have told me you wanted the galaxy instead of space because the gap between us now is astoundingly panoramic, nothing can reach the you to me… not even a space shuttle can do that.

I previously loved every piece of you- your hair, your lips, your voice. I could still remember the pieces of whites you have on your hair, like a firework in a dark, starless night. Your broad back which I loved the most when you hugged me. That hug was all that I needed when I was having a bad day. Now, all that you have left me is the stale bitterness of anger and revenge hanging inside my mouth that I wanted to spit out but I can’t. I wanted to remember all the good days but you made me mad like a rabig dog salivating for revenge.

I told you not to hold grudges against the world, I taught you how to forgive. Meanwhile, you taught me how to hold on to madness to survive.

You made me mad but that’s how love’s supposed to be. Maybe on the other side of the moon, in the alternate universe, there is you and me that works but I hope there’s no other you and me anymore. We are the glitch of the system, the by-product of trauma.

I still cry all the time, each night I go to slumber when I happen to think of you. Last time, it was because of sadness. Now, it’s because of uttermost anger that I couldn’t project.

“Que sera, sera”

Whatever will be, will be.

Evermind

I still write about trivial things, the peculiar ones especially. One thing’s for sure: I don’t write when I feel elated. I must be devastated as hell.

Evermind, evermind- my simbelmyn̈e.

Ever wondered why flowers grow on tombs? Do they grow there because of the abundance of vital things they need? Or do they grow there to feed on the memories of the dead?

Simbelmyn̈e, simbelmyn̈e.

All of the memories you left, I’m still watering them, letting them take over my room.

They crawl- the vines creep against the walls of my very room. Dehydrating and drinking the moisture from the concrete. My sorry self is very much aware that the walls of my room will soon crumble as the twines devour the entirety of the cement palisade but I am too pre- occupied, entertaining your ghost.

The snowy colored blossoms dangling from each vine die each time I try to disregard them but they bloom too fast that if it happens that they will imbibe even just a single tear from the orifice of my tear duct, they will flourish.

Alas! The reason you cannot die lies within me, under my very nose literally.

My heart, my mind is a simbelmyn̈e– feeding upon the dead, the rotten leftovers. Enjoying tombs, the skeletons of the past.

You cannot die, you will never die. As long as somebody preys upon your bequeathal, as long as someone is still tending the memories you have left behind.

Simbelmyn̈e, simbelmyn̈e, evermind.

Oblivion

I could build a whole museum full of pictures of you when I didn’t even have a single photo of me saved in your phone gallery.

I could build a library full of poetry pieces about you when you barely even talk to me about your feelings.

Oblivion. Did your foggy brain forget me too? The unappreciated, the undervalued?

My name scribbled upon the insides of your fourth finger faded. Did you fade along with it too?

My therapist told me that my amygdala- the tiny vessel in my brain which holds the miniscule butterflies responsible for my feelings, needed to be watered because mine is so arrid, the desert will be jealous. But how can I revive it if you kept on starving me for the love I needed?

Oblivion. Did you forget all I did for you?

Oblivion. Did you forget I have feelings, too?

Oblivion. Forget the old me. Forget me. Forget.

Eating Ramen with You.

The thing is, I always wanted to eat and thread myself inside the bowl of a magical ramen and wallow with my long term growing sadness that has been outgrowing my intellect since I was 17 years old. I always wanted to eat at a ramen shop on a cold, post drizzle Monday afternoon viewing the people passing by, judging them one by one by their weird outfits. The first time I ate with someone at my favorite ramen shop, I almost fainted because of happiness. Deep inside my cranium, I always imagine eating with someone I found so dearly smiling from ear to ear, talking about nonsense and whatnot. I’d be so glad if I am eating spicy chicken ramen with extra cuts of cabbage on the side if I am seeing the love of my life enjoying my recommended food for him. It could be heaven if he tells me “I love you” in the middle of slurping noddles like an endless cassette tape reel; like an endless thread of yarn he cannot cut using his teeth. It didn’t matter if he accidentally snorts in the middle of doing it. I just wanted a good talk in the middle of eating an extremely good ramen with him.
But the thing is, January 27, 2012 would be the last time I would be eating  in my favorite ramen place with him. I always liked their braised pork, their spicy chicken ramen. But, today is just different. Damn, that was the most awful ramen I ever tasted in my whole 22 years of existence. The taste of spices tingled the back of my throat, spewing nasty tears out of my eyes as I swallowed a huge lump of karaage.
         The thing is, I wanted to cry on my knees when you told me you’re leaving while waiting for your usual order of ramen. You stared down the bowl like you’re daydreaming as you said you don’t love me anymore. I was supposed to be happy because I am with my favorite person, in my favorite place, eating my favorite food. Dear, I wanted to run away from that awful place… wanted to disappear, wanting to die.
Things don’t resonate like before when I passed by that cursed ramen shop. It’s been a year and I haven’t stepped inside of it and I never wanted to again.
Eating ramen with you is something I wanted to do… before you left my fragile heart; before you left me melting like an egg yolk in a bowl of hot soup.

Through the haziness of the room…

… saturated with lavender scented smoke suspended through the thin air, I looked into your eyes and wondered why everyday I wake up beside you everything is slowly turning into a 1960’s movie.
Monochrome.
Black and white.
Your presence leaves a tar and cotton colored residue in between the spaces of my freshly washed comforter each time you leave my bed. I peacefully followed your trails with my eyes as you head to the bathroom carrying your two month old toothbrush you bought from a random convenient store on your way home. The sound of the water splashing against the tiled walls made my heart and soul sulk, reminding me about the fact that you’re leaving me again.
Coming back after a week.
No assurance that you will.
My body summons the past-night-shenanigans tremors, forbidding me to move an inch from the bed that I am laying in. You went out of the bathroom like a soaked fluffy toy bearing a sly face that you always do whenever you leave. You gracefully tiptoe like the ballet man that you are across the room to open the closet and change into your go-to clothes.
Spray your Jo Malone Orange Blossom perfume.
Sit upon the mini sofa.
Wait for your bleached blonde hair to dry.
“Please don’t leave. Can you stay for a couple more days?”
“Darling, I can’t. I will come back to you, I promise.” You look down and pat a clean towel against your feet.
I understand, I completely do. My heart crumples as you look at me with scrunched nose, trying to hold back the tears you have been depositing in the back of your sclera for a long, long time.
Wanting to stay.
Wanting to stop the ticking of my old desktop clock.
After minutes, alas. You stood up, slowly shoved the blue tinted curtain aside to open my windows. You always told me to open them every morning to let my room breath. Yes, you better do because your scent circulates around the room and I can’t bare it. It feels like I will still breath your being even though your physical self is not around anymore. You meticulously check your bag one last time, pretending to arrange your already neat bag just to buy another minute.
“I guess I’ll go. I’m late for my flight.”
“Yeah.”
You begin approaching me to kiss my forehead, my cheek, my lips. You kiss me one last time as the taxi cab that was supposed to get you to the airport honk repeatedly. Frustratingly, you let go of a subtle “tch” between your breaths.
“Please wait for me. I will come back.”
“Yeah…”

I won’t Forgive You, My Love.

Min Yoongi’s Diary
August 23, 1999
3:46 am

I could slowly feel my lungs wheeze as I inhale the last cigarette stick that has been pressed flat inside my old leather wallet. This would be my last stash since I have been promising myself to stop consuming the cancer since last month; since the last time you walked out of my apartment bearing those sullen, tumescent eyes. I would have blocked you from the door, dropped on my knees upon the cold, granite lined floor, and begged for the last time but I purposely didn’t. Maybe you’re asking why didn’t my foolish self do that but we both knew the answer from that habitual question: we’ve had enough; I’ve had enough.
It was not purely my fault. In fact, we both have shortcomings and inadequacies from this bullshit relationship. I’m fucking angry because I lost a good companion and I have been laying awake every night thinking about you. I couldn’t even write songs properly like I used to because everytime I hold the pen, I would always, always write about you and your dreadful memories. I’m disgusted- no. That was a total understatement from all that I feel right now. I am dumbfounded about the fact that you started seeing someone a week after you stepped out of the fortress that you and I shared for months. How could you do that to my nicotine stained heart and soul, darling? You swore to all the gods you knew that there wasn’t anyone. You sly fox, you fooled me.
Setting aside all the bad things between us, I am beyond thankful for all the good memoirs we both created. I came across the old VHS recordings you kept in my lone studio and I never sobbed so hard ever in my life. As I pressed the playback button, it was as if my life was rewinding before my eyes. You recorded everything- from the backstage shenanigans, our simple park dates, the awards I got from my job, even my literature blocked days where I often blabber about anything that my petty brain thought about. I remember you telling me that I should keep this video diary because I will probably thank you in the future… seems that you’re right after all.
Darling, I missed everything about you but I knew I cannot rewind all of those bittersweet memories literally again. These endless, tangible stacks of VHS tapes will sure obliterate overtime and I will just lie awake in my bed praying to the universe that my feelings for you will do the same. The burning sensation and the nasty taste of alcohol couldn’t and will never cure my love hangover from you.
I’m sorry but I won’t forgive you, my love. Maybe if my tarred stained soul will turn to ivory, I will forgive you… but we both know that will never happen.

Who would have thought…

… that my ill-fated, forsaken Bonnie self finally found my long time missing Clyde after lurking under my nose for years… and years?
Who would have thought that a simple greeting could change everything that was in between the two old acquaintances? After going home late from the bar, drinking several vodka shots, and kissing each other goodbye, we often ask ourselves where have we been throughout these lonely painstaking years. Honestly and seriously… did fate intentionally played the both of us by traumatizing the fuck out of our emotions and involving us to people who would eventually end up being strangers to us again?
Fate. That’s it. I have no other words for this unexpected union between two lost people. Fate- the foolish unwinding but never breaking red string tangled up and I pray and swear to the vast heavens above me that this would be the last one.  Screw Romeo and Juliet; they got nothing from this peculiar love story.
Baby… I never wrote a happy poetry piece ever in my life but ever since you came, my brain keeps on thinking happy thoughts and keeps on screaming that I needed to write before I go crazy from this overwhelming mix of emotions hiding between the bones of my ribcage. You’re my miracle; an oasis in the middle of a desert. You’re the flower that blooms in my dreams, my dear Smeraldo. I can never imagine my life without spending my late Friday nights without you; never in the deepest parts of my amygdala would have wished that we remained acquaintances after we talked and talked over cheap sticks of cigarette watching the sun goes down at 6pm.
My love, I hope you’re happy as I am right now. Thank you for arriving into my life in such a bizarre time of the year.

 

I should’ve…

… told you that you were a great cook. I should’ve said that I couldn’t live without physically indulging your signature ginataang mais at least once a year. Now, tell me how should I recreate your dish without you teaching me how to do it? I remember trying to scrape off the corn kernels off the cobs and you laughed at me because I suck at doing it.
I should’ve paid attention to you when you were telling me to go out and have some fresh air last week. Basically, you must have not seen me out of my room for weeks and for that, I apologize because I am currently having a mid life crisis but it was surprising to know that you have noticed it.
I should’ve told you that no matter how white your hair is, you’re still beautiful. Can you even recall the time you went to me and asked to color your hair? I will miss caressing your head, feeling each strand of your hair sliding down my fingers.
I miss your obnoxious laugh. I miss how you exaggeratedly laughed at my own lame jokes like I was the one who invented them.
Tell me how can I live walking past your ancestral house without you kissing my cheeks and telling me “Abaw! Ka gwapa sang apo ko!” ? I often wonder why you always say that to my cheap BB cream smothered face and peach colored lips. For me, I looked nothing but an ordinary girl. Too bad I couldn’t appreciate myself like you do.
The night that I was sitting beside your hospital bed, watching your irregular breathing pattern disentigrate as you tried your best to breathe in through the cannula, a lot of wandering thoughts flew into my mind. I couldn’t stand seeing you lying there with pale lips and cold limbs so I purposefully went out of the room.
The last time I saw you respond to me was when I kissed your forehead. You looked up to me with your weakly opening eyelids, my chest felt the pain you were feeling.
My whole being trembled as the doctor told us that your pulse was gradually weakening and they had nothing to do with it anymore but to pump medicines that they thought could improve your fragile heart.
I was eagerly watching your intravenous solution drop, watching you wheeze through your oxygen deprived lungs. You went through hours of pain until you decided to go at exactly 5 am… which was the usual time that I go to sleep everyday.
I should’ve said these things to you. You were always telling me that you will wait until I become a doctor but what happened, my love? I saw you there with your lifeless body; I saw you there peacefully closing your eyes like nothing even happened to you.
I should’ve saved you back there if only I knew.
I should’ve…

-in memory of my late grandmother, Carmelina M. Sinfuego. I love you forever.-

(Seen in the photo from right to left:
My grandmother, Lola Bebet and Tita April, and My mother)

 

When will My Summers End?

January 27, 2018
5:24 am

Approximately twenty four minutes after five in the morning, here I am still awake. I took a night bath, cleaned my room, did my nightly skin routine, and dimmed the lights at eleven in the evening but look who’s wide awake and drowning herself from the darkness? Yes, it’s me. The mighty queen of the insomniacs: Rinzeki. Well, that should be a good epitaph when I die.
Elders always say that if you can’t sleep at night, you might be in love or at least thinking of somebody special to you. In my case, I clearly don’t think about anything else before I sleep but the future. I lie there like an idiot, holding my phone, and reading some unnecessary fanfiction/flashfiction/ drabble for 5 hours but none of them penetrates in my imaginations. I have been a huge procrastinating machine this whole time and no matter how I wanted to do something I usually loved to do (like street photography, writing poetry, roaming around the suburbs) I always say alibis to myself. For example, my laundry has been sitting inside my room for 3 days now. If those were allowed to talk, they’d be complaining to me and would tell me that they wanted to move out and find someone who could actually fold them nicely after drying them up. In addition to that, I am frequently seeing my friends now having their dream jobs while me… I’m just here swooning over seven Korean men and ignoring the two job offerings I had. The jobs were wonderful but of course, the idiot me refused to work in Manila because I don’t want to rent a room and spend another buck for staying there.
Jokes aside, I’m actually loving my current routine everyday: wake up, clean my room, do laundry, eat breakfast, take a bath, read books, try doing poetry which would eventually fail, blame myself for having an IQ of a rat, cry over a Korean man whom will never notice me, do 10 rounds of jogging, repeat. Okay, that was sarcastic but I’m actually getting used to it.
Can I also vent how much I hated seeing couples these days? Not to be that kind of a bitch but please for goodness sake, don’t come near me you dirty people. I suck at love, I would never be good at it and I don’t think that will ever change. Look, I lost three wonderful guys in my life and all of them eventually became Summer Finn. If you don’t know Summer Finn, she’s the girl in the “500 Days of Summer” and ever since I watched that movie, my love life has been shitty. In the story, she just had a short love affair to Tom (who was a big asshole to me, by the way) and left him out of the blue. After that, she became engaged to someone else and never told Tom. Just look it up because I am currently wasting my time explaining a damn movie in my poetry but it actually feels good because I am guessing that this would be the longest poetry piece that I will make.
Anyways, where was I? Oh, goodness! It was the Summer Finn thing! The three boys became Summer Finn and I remained as a foolish Tom Hansen- the alcoholic, depressed, self loathing Tom Hansen. As I am writing this, I am thinking… when will my summers end? When can I actually live my life properly as an adult? Sometimes, I wished I didn’t grow up because being an adult hurts so much. A piece of advice to young teens/college students who are currently reading this, please don’t be excited to graduate and be an adult. You’ll be regretting it later.
Well, too much for a 5 am thought. The sun is currently peeking from my windowsill and that`s the signal that I should get some sleep and think about other things than my future and boys… boys. Ha, boys.
When will my summers end? I wonder…
But what if it will never end and my autumn is apparently just a speck of dust, a fragment of my imaginations? What if my autumn will never come?