Supernova

make love to the stars;
a most torrid affair that
starts and ends in flames.

***

January 20 2012, because this blog desperately needs updating. I was supposed to write about mirrors – hello, Lacan – but I ended up with stars instead.

Here

I was denied the privilege
of frequenting
the places
you once frequented.

A sad thing to do,
I know,
but it would’ve been nice
and particularly poetic
to have been able
to sit
where you once sat
and imagine
you sitting
there
with
me.

Instead, I am here;
here, where it is new
and unfamiliar.

The door where I had walked through
has disappeared or been shut forever,
whichever’s more tragic-sounding,
leaving me no means
of returning to that where I started.

There are doors here, too
and windows and ceilings
and floors and skies,
but they’re not our doors,
not our windows,
not our ceilings, not our floors,
not
our
skies.

This is the here where I do
my sighing
and hoping
and praying,
because, really
that’s all I can do;
sigh and hope and pray
that you are here
with me,
still here,
with
me,
like you said, like
you promised,
even if
you don’t necessarily
know
where here is.

Sighing.
Hoping.
Praying.
You.
Me.
Here.

***

September 24 2011, the wee hours, with minor revisions done today. Thanks, Beng, for your input!

Those of you who know me know I’m not that big of a fan of poetry, I can consume it in a pinch but I can’t create it to save my soul. However, at that particular point in time, I felt like the form of my expression needed to be reflective of my emotional condition; that is to say, fragmented.

It’s been six months since my dad died. I miss you, dad!

Mary Fucking Sunshine

She stirred contempt like she stirred her tea, slowly and deliberately, with only the slightest hint of scorn. Her tea, she sipped demurely, making just enough noise to make her disdain known. The afternoon ended with sixteen teacups smashed on the floor, flecks of white against the carpet’s red.

***

July 19 2011. Fuma-flash fiction daw, o. This may or may not be reflective of my current state of being.

Cigarette

I unlocked the door to our apartment, and an open window, curtains blowing, greeted me. Careless, but typical, I thought to myself as I walked across the room to close it. One hand on either knob, I couldn’t help but lean towards the edge and take a breath, a deep one, taking in the city of lights and sounds, the city I’ve grown accustomed to for almost a year now, the city that never sleeps.

As if in a meticulously choreographed movie, I look up and see her sitting at the fire-exit stairwell, a floor or two up. I squint slightly and I know it’s her; those are the pink-and-black short shorts she was wearing when she kissed me goodbye a few hours ago.

I climb up, pulling my jacket closer to me as I do. I feel the vibrations of my footsteps directly against my own feet, and she must’ve felt them against her ass, though she did nothing to acknowledge it. She was still in the staring out beyond the city skyline, still swirling the by-then cold serving of cup noodles in one hand. She didn’t even make an effort to hide the pack of Marlboros beside her. She could’ve easily pushed it behind her, or sat on it. Though, the half-consumed cigarette in her hand would’ve given her away anyway, so I get why she didn’t bother with that, or with putting something over her to keep her warm, or, now that I think about it, anything that particularly involved her wellbeing.

“I didn’t know you smoke.” I sat beside her.
She scooted over. Was that reluctance I sensed? “It’s a pretty recent thing.” She said, not looking at me but at her ostentatiously large wristwatch. “It’s only one in the morning. I’m surprised.” She looks at me at this point.
I shrug. “Since when?”
She imitates my shrug, half mockingly. “You know.”

I remember walking in at half past four to her sleeping in an awkward position on our couch, a fresh cigarette still lit, balancing precariously between her slackened fingers. I put it out, kissed her forehead, carried her to bed and interrogated her that afternoon the moment she rolled out of bed.

That was the first time I caught her. I have no idea when she started. But for simplicity’s sake, I nodded halfheartedly anyway.

She took a drag, a long one, and another one, in front of me.

Her eyes met mine, her confusion making a head-on collision with my questions. Why was burning with white flames.

“I’m lonely.”
“I’m here.”

She finished it first, and then put it out. My logic dictated that she was still her, never a fan of waste no matter what. My emotions laced it with symbolism.

***

March 29 2007. I, an embarrassment.

Idiosyncrasy

It was idiosyncratic of her to answer yes questions with an I do instead of a yes. For example, Do you smoke?. She says, I do when most people just say yes, accompanied by a small nod. You get laid often?, and she grins like a cheeky little monkey, I do. And it has become a habit for me to rephrase questions in such a way that they become answerable by a yes, to which she’ll say I do instead.

She could be perfection personified, or just well-read. Either way, I’m in love.

I’m marrying her one day. But knowing her, when asked at the altar,  …For better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish from this day forward, forever and ever and ever and ever, or at least until death do you part?,  she’ll just smile and say yes.

***

March 22 2007. Where was I four years ago?

05:30AM

It was supposed to last fifteen minutes, but the pregnant pauses and awkward silences made it an eternity. Each time she’d take a breath, I’d take one too, but it would just end in a sigh that led to more silence, and I’d just sigh as well. It only highlighted the distance between us, both in miles and moments. Would she believe me if I said I loved her?

“Complete the thought.” She said, finally. Her voice cracked as she began that opening statement, as if from disuse or silent weeping. “If you could hold me…”

“I would hold you.”

***

March 24 2008. Flowery words from three years back, because I used to write. Very few of my surviving scribbles cause me the most minimum amount of embarrassment possible, so I’m reposting the less painful ones here for posterity.