Now Playing Tracks


I’m trying to be not irritated or tired, honey. Just trying to make a solid foundation for my life, that’s what it is. I have to get somewhere, just like everybody else. I know what you’re going to say, that I don’t have to confine myself to the lines people have drawn, “the norm.” But do you honestly think we can live without ambition, dreams and the feelings you get when you know you’ve achieved something? I forget to eat, and I like knowing that sometimes I forget to do the basic survival tasks because that’s just how preoccupied I am. I don’t find much happiness in fleeting, risky acts of adolescence and immaturity anymore, honey. I want stability, knowing that I have done something productive that day and that I can also pursue things I don’t need because I deserve to blow shit up and enjoy myself sometimes. I like being tired and understanding that this is all “growing up.” We don’t have a lot of moments to lose, anymore. Living in your twenties is not only about making mistakes and not knowing what to do with yourself. It’s also about learning, growing and understanding that you’re a much bigger potential than what you make yourself out to be. Yes darling, I know you don’t want to admit it but this is what it is. Sometimes you have to be cruel and selfish to prioritize. Sometimes you have to put things on hold or leave them behind so better things can unfold before you. Love isn’t always enough and I know hopeless romantics always say that love prevails, that you are nothing without love. Maybe they’re right. But sometimes, you can’t love without having made something of yourself first. Sometimes, you must grow before you love. 




I fall in love with all things broken: window cracks, shards of glass, scraped knees, and broken hearts wrapped up in bandages.

You were deeply scarred when I met you.

I toppled over.


You have this habit of entering a new place for the first time and exclaiming that you feel like you’ve been there before. Wherever we went to, you’d tell me that the view, the noise, the smell—everything seemed familiar to you.

"Sometimes I look at people and feel the same way," I’d reply.


Scars validate one’s existence. 
I often thought yours make you beautiful.
I often wished I wore scars I could take pride in, too.


"Maybe people only know me on the surface because I’m afraid they’ll find nothing worthwhile beneath it if they got too close," I told you once over cold beer. "I do not have the heart to see people walk out of my life if that were the case."

I recall you replying as such: “You’re like the night sky. Hidden behind those clouds are the brightest stars light years away and only the daring ones get to see those bloody stars. You have to be bold enough to see them yourself, and you have to be brave to let others draw out your constellations.”


For Christmas, you gave me a silver pen with my name engraved on it and asked me to write what I want to be.

I wrote "Yours" on your palm.


That night, I kissed you as if the balance of the universe depended on it.


There was a map pinned on my wall the morning that followed your departure; it was your farewell letter. I tried guessing where you might have gone to but the world’s too vast for my puny soul.

…I have never felt more inadequate.


I tried writing you in fancy metaphors but
language could not capture the arch of your back,
or the ringing of your laughter,
or the burn of your stare,
or the taste of your tongue.

Words could not pave you a way back to me.


You scarred me well, my dove.


Now, I am beautiful, too.


Iced tea sounds about right at this moment. Where ice cubes’ life expectancy out in the open only lasts a few moments before its cold breath melts. It’s 3:45 PM in my watch and everyone outside is chasing the shade. Summer is here with the moderate chances of rain. Just yesterday the whole eastern side was drenched in a huge pocket of water. A low pressure area, as told by the weathermen. Funny how the seasons work with these not-so-sporadic abnormalities.  

"Sir? Will that be all?"  There was a hint of impatience on the waitress’ voice. I must write a mental note to myself to try and not randomly wander off next time.  
"Oh. Sorry. Yeah that will be all. Thank you." She left in a hurry to tend to other tables and I on the other hand am left to see the blue sky in whole view again. The glass is cold for little while longer. 

Something about this heat sets a crux in my worries, but I know the answers are out there waiting for me to find them. Like how some people yearn for the sea while the others are content to embrace the sand and the answers and myself are the between, the line where the waves and shore teases the shoal into submission.

I took a sip to finally quench my thirst. But found the taste no different from the water that constantly tries to drown me when I try to wake the earth with each little step I make.



in spare moments
I plan out a future
fabricated from the
soft meanderings of
who my memory
conjures you to be
in dreams: I recall
the sensation of
your kiss with
the swift nostalgia
one experiences
right before having
a stroke— admit it,
we are never the
people we intend
to leave behind in
the memory of
others. since us,

I have been given
comfort strength
emotions good
neck kisses long phone
calls old names new
phrasings out-
door thrashings
indoor secrets
notices about the
noise we made
(and far too few
flower bouquets)
ecstasy desperation
safety insecurity and
the cool promise
of coming home to
an empty bed but
somehow after all this

you were the only one
to give me something
I could hold onto and
be proud of, even years
after you left:


To Tumblr, Love Pixel Union