december baby

Mine

2009-07-04T00:36:00.000-07:00

It seemed like the world was underwater. I blinked my eyes twice, thrice, and the fog of sleep lifted. One quick glance at the wall clock told me that I had overslept by some thirty minutes or so. Lifting my body out of bed took little effort. After three years of the same routine, it had grown used to the abuse of rude (though self-imposed) awakenings. It used to offer some form of resistance in the beginning, when I began to subject it to these 3 A.M. wake-up calls, but it was a trooper. A regular veteran of war.

I headed to the pantry, where I found an almost empty box of 3-in-1 coffee. One packet lay waiting for me there and I took it from its misery, ripping it open where it was marked "tear here".

I have to stop anthropomorphizing inanimate objects.

I poured the contents into a mug an ex-boyfriend had given me for our first Christmas together, when he still had no idea what sort of girl I was. Generic store-bought objects are usually bought early on in relationships, when boys are still trying to gauge if you are the type of girlfriend who won't really give a fuck about what they give you, as long as they say they love you, or if you're the type of girlfriend that every boy fears: high-maintenance and will give them shit for every unoriginal act of love that they commit.

Fortunately, first Christmases are always full of forgiveness, so any miscalculation on their part will be forgiven.

I'm the third type of girl. The secretly high-maintenance one who pretends she is above all that and says material things don't really matter, when in fact, they abso-fucking-lutely do.

I turned on the tap and filled my cup with water, then shuffled over to the microwave to finish the deed.

When my coffee was finally ready, I ambled over to my study desk with the mug in hand. It is a stupid looking thing, with three pink hearts on it, proudly proclaiming the words "Best Girlfriend" in pink Comic Sans. I thought it looked hideous when he gave it to me, and I still think it looks hideous now, but the funny thing is I still use it. It is a very useful mug, and it keeps me company when I'm slouched over my books, pretending to study, when to be perfectly honest, I'm just thinking about random things that I have no time to think about when I'm in the waking world.

Reading is secondary. Mulling things over is really the whole point.

I picked up my reviewer on apoptosis and started thinking about death in earnest. I think I would be okay with it. Dying, I mean. I'm not that terrified of the whole process of shutting down and ceasing to exist, at least in the way that I'm used to. I'm more afraid of watching people go. It's the prospect of being left behind that scares me. I don't know what could be lonelier than that, to know that the people you love have gone onto places that you can't follow. At least, not for now.

I like the lull at this hour.

I know this is a false sense of solitude because all over the world, people are awake, doing random day-to-day shit, but for now, in my part of the world, at least, it is silent.

For now, at least, the time is mine.

Lost

2009-07-01T05:51:00.001-07:00

This is how it's going to work. I'm going to see you, maybe two or three times a week, and I'm going to pretend that you don't exist. Then I'll see you on a day when I'm drunk enough on cheap wine from the convenience store two blocks away from my place and then we'll talk, and this is how it will all play out.

You: Why are you ignoring me?

Me: What are you talking about?

At this point, I'll laugh drunkenly and sling an arm around your shoulders. I'll pretend nothing is wrong and try to tease you into thinking that maybe you've been overcome by neurosis and that it's all in your head.

Things have changed, as much as I hate to admit it. It used to be that I could look at you, straight in the eye, and talk to you about anything, just about anything, and not be afraid to hold that gaze, or that you would look away first. It used to be that I could make you laugh and that you would understand every single thing about me and that we liked the same food and held each other's hands and had our own language that no one else would understand.

It used to be that you were mine, in some wonderful little way. But time has a way of changing things, turning them inside-out and making them so unrecognizable that they become completely different entities, and no matter how hard you try, you can no longer find what it was that you loved so much about them.

But then again, contrary to the natural order, there are things that stay the same, left behind forever in the aftermath of change. There are things, feelings, places...

Even people.

Ephemera

2009-06-28T04:52:00.000-07:00

Call me crazy, but here's the thing. I ain't one of those folks who like to look ahead of me that often. Or at all. I mean, all right, there is some merit to the idea of having a plan; one of them rock-solid plans that will give you direction, whatever that is. But you know what, fuck direction, seriously, it doesn't take real life into account.

My old man's always telling me, "GET SOME SENSE INTO THAT GODDAMN HEAD, FRANK. I DIDN'T RAISE YOU TO BE NO IDIOT." He says that I have no concrete plans for my life and that everything he ever did for me is just going down the goddamn drain. Before you start thinking of me as some ingrate, lemme tell you this, pal.

The way things usually go is that they hardly ever go the way you planned. Hey, listen, my cousin Jenny was expecting a kid, okay, and she found out that it was a little girl and all, and so she and her husband fixed up the guest room at their place all feminine-like, with pink walls and all. They even got a pink bassinet with the frilly shit, you know what I'm saying? Then one day, I find out that she'd lost the kid, and that she'd never be able to have any ever again.

I'm not saying life is always shit. I'm no pessimist, believe me. Quite the opposite.

What I'm saying is, you take this life for what it is, for every second you breathe, for that pretty lady's hand you're holding this very moment, for that smile you got out of the kid sitting at the table across you, for your old man's chest moving up and down while he's asleep. You take it in for all it's worth and be thankful for every second you got here.

Maybe you all have a point, working your 9 to 5's, thinkin' ahead of time, saving up for that fancy sports car and whatnot.

But we gotta be honest with ourselves. Dreams are beautiful, to wanna be able to look ahead and make big plans, that'll always be in the picture for us human beings I guess, but what I'm saying is really this.

Now is all we've really ever got.

Just now.

Maps

2009-06-28T04:43:00.001-07:00

I wish you came with an instruction manual.

Silver

2009-04-04T00:04:00.000-07:00

You sabotage every possibility of a healthy relationship by comparing it an ideal that you should have abandoned as soon as you outgrew your dollhouse and the sandboxes in each playground you would frequent. There is no white knight, there is no prince to rescue you from your tower. There will be no elaborate schemes by an evil sorcerer intent on keeping you apart from your true love, no heart-stopping duels to the death for your hand, no forest friends to act as comedic distractions from the tragedy that is your loneliness, no blessings from white witches on your wedding day.

In the time we live in, such ideas must be dismissed. The world of steel and granite does not welcome romance, does not lend itself to the idea of your one true love coming to save you from the clutches of a cruel life.

Yet you sit in your tower, waiting by the window, sighing with your cheek pressed against the pane, still hopeful that he will come.

Princess, I must tell you time and again, you will wait forever only to have your heart broken.

Love Like a Sunset

2009-04-03T16:45:00.000-07:00

The last light finally went out, but even in the darkness I could see your chest rising and falling with each breath. You were fast asleep, lost somewhere exchanging kind words with Pierre Dénys de Montfort about your thoughts on the existence of the Kraken or escorting Queen Mab to her glittering spiderweb throne. Your arms were locked tightly around my waist, your face was against my neck. My back ached terribly from lying on the flat surface of the floor, but I did not dare move.

You look so beautiful when you sleep.

Futures

2008-12-02T09:24:00.001-08:00

I hope for better in December. As the day comes to a close, the sky explodes into a master's canvas, the strokes deliberate but absolutely effortless, drawing the breath out of my chest as the last rays of light softly touch the earth.

As soon as it arrives, it is gone. I am left completely changed in its wake. These are the moments, these small, fleeting fragments of time, that will remain crystallized in my memory as perfect, as enduring, for all eternity.

Worlds

2008-11-21T22:16:00.001-08:00

I promised to wait, as long as there was any semblance of hope, even a futile flicker of what there once was. I do not take promises lightly, sir, and I am honorable enough to keep my word. I am no longer a child, sir, no longer the girl whose hands you used to take in yours, no longer the daughter you left behind so many years ago. I have followed suit, I have grown into someone you would have been proud to have by your side. I will wait, I swear it, I will wait for as long as it takes, for as long as I live, for as long as forever.

I keep my promises.

City

2008-11-21T22:11:00.000-08:00

She runs her hands through her hair as she tries to forget. It had been a long day.

There was a time when there could have been so much more, but for now, maybe for ever, this is all there will be.

Hers

2008-04-19T20:59:00.001-07:00

She is not very beautiful. To be sure, she is not unsightly. She is pleasant enough on the eyes, but not the kind of woman who sets men's hearts aflame with passion whenever she walks past. She is not the paragon of femininity either, always laughing too loudly or cursing so violently that one is wont to wonder if she is truly a woman or merely a man masquerading about in feminine dress. But she is mine, or at least, I am hers, for she never returns my impassioned (although, admittedly awkward and clumsy) speeches and my meaningful gazes, instead choosing to laugh at me during the very few moments when she chooses not to ignore me.

I had been a proud man before I met her. I was esteemed among my colleagues and was widely sought after by mothers and daughters alike. Romance was the farthest thing from my mind. Dalliances, yes, I admit, were an occasional indulgence, but merely as trifling distractions and never central to my existence. But the first bloom of love changed me so completely, so thoroughly, that it has left me a new man, and not much of a man, in all honesty. I no longer recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Bedraggled wretch!

It has turned me against myself, doing away with any idea of self-preservation, of dignity, of anything else that had to do with selfishness and pride. What a miserable thing, this love! It has transformed me into a simpering, hopeless fool who no longer cares about his very life, his thoughts only turning to the other, the woman, the very cause of his own hurt and downfall! She views me as nothing but an insufferable pest, if anything at all, and turns her nose up at me when she sees me clambering towards her in my desperate attempt to convince her to at least, not even for an entire day, let me love her. Oh, if she would only let me. Pathetic fool that I am.

How savage is the world that offers you everything, yet denies you the one thing, the only thing, that could ever bring you that vile, poisonous form of joy that every man craves for from the unhappy moment he allows himself to become enslaved by love.

Drift

2008-04-19T20:49:00.000-07:00

There are times when I catch myself longing to exist in a different world where you and I would make sense. However, I allow myself only a few moments of these delusions, after which I plant my feet firmly back on solid ground. If I, from my own indulgence, let myself wander off for too long, I fear that there would be no more hope for return.

Heart

2008-04-17T22:58:00.000-07:00

It is a cruel, cruel business, especially when it is allowed to fester and grow inside you secretly, where it becomes a separate entity from you altogether, rising from the pit of your gut and branching out until it penetrates every nerve in your body, infesting every cell, rising, rising, rising, until you can no longer contain it. There is no escape from this foolishness, no respite from the sharp exhalations of breath, the mad imaginings of things that can never be, the utter hopelessness, and the slow, painful death of your spirit.

What I would give to be young and heartless again.

Pain

2008-04-17T22:32:00.000-07:00

The most painful thing, perhaps, is not remembering things long past, but longing for the things that could have, might have, should have happened.

Mixtape

2008-02-25T07:41:00.001-08:00

Anyway, honey, there was this boy I met back in college. You wouldn't have liked him, he was the kind of boy who never washed the back of his neck. I know for a fact you hate that type. No, baby, it's not that you're picky, I just wish- Anyway, this boy, his name was Julian. He was very skinny, a little bit of a shrimp. I met him when I was pretending to be studious in the library. I'm on to you, sweetheart. Your mother was young once. He nearly ran me over because he was in such a hurry to get somewhere, I don't know, but you can just imagine. I was walking into one of the aisles and he comes out of nowhere with his backpack and his floppy hair like a raging bull. He was very polite though and he picked up my books and said "JESUS! Sorry, sorry," then went back on storming his path. I saw him again a couple of weeks after in mass. It was Ash Wednesday in school so there were no classes the time the mass was held. Oh, Angela, it would be lovely if you could start going back to- Well, okay, I'm not really imposing anything on you. That would be terribly hypocritical of me. But I'm just saying. Anyway. Where was I. Oh yes.

I saw him in mass. He looked scragglier than ever, with his hands shoved into his pockets the whole time and that hair. I doubt the priest could even make it to his forehead. I was behind him in the line and when he turned around after receiving the cross, I couldn't even make out an inch of skin above his eyes. He had nice eyes though. I could tell. Very wise and sad. They were dark brown and caught light at every angle, but it was unfortunate because almost everything was covered by that awful hair. But he nodded at me, or at least I think he did. And after that day I kept seeing him a whole lot at school.

We finally got to talk when we became classmates in Philosophy and that was about the time I started seeing your father. Julian was actually quieter than I had expected since that first meeting in the library, but he was very nice and he made me laugh. I just hated that hair. Awful. He held my books for me sometimes and lent me his notes, which consisted of 15% actual notes and 85% drawings of the backs of people leaning against chairs. To me, he was one of the friends you made in college that you remember once in a while when you're older, but never really make an effort to look for anyhow. Well, yes, I know it sounds cruel, but you're much too young and idealistic about your friendships to understand. Talk to me again when you're in college, honey.

One time, we walked to class together and as soon as we opened the door to the room, another classmate of ours walked out, yelling "He's not coming to class!!" Well, I had nothing else to do for the day and your father wouldn't be out for another hour, so I stayed with Julian in the cafeteria, where he usually waited for his classes. He bought me an iced tea and a bag of chips, then he sat down in front of me with his floppy hair covering one whole side of his face. I wanted to reach out and tuck that hair back but we weren't friendly enough to do that with each other without it seeming awkwardly affectionate. Then he sighed very loudly and fished for something in his backpack.

"Here," he said, producing a cassette tape from his bag. He plopped it in front of me, looked at me, then suddenly stood up and left. To this day, I still have no clear idea of what had happened.

That night, after fighting with your father on the phone, I took out the tape from my own bag and put it into my cassette player. I was never really the kind of person who had to be listening to music all the time or else I would keel over and die but since that night, I wouldn't stop listening to the songs he had put on that tape. I borrowed my brother's Walkman the next day and went to school with one of those ridiculously large headphones covering my ears, just listening.

I showed up for Philosophy the next week and found his seat empty. Our professor announced that Julian had taken an indefinite leave of absence right before diving into Kant and Von Hildebrand. The next day, we found out that he had jumped off the roof of the building where his mother worked. There was no note or anything like that.

I still have it in one of my drawers. It's obsolete in this day and age, but I still like holding on to it. Now this is a secret, so don't you ever tell anyone, especially your father. I loved Julian. I loved him since the day he almost broke my bones running me over and I still loved him when he jumped off and broke my heart.

You never really do understand how the heart behaves. It's the most fickle thing in the world, sweetheart, so don't you ever trust it for a second.

We Never Change

2007-09-16T00:45:00.000-07:00

His name is Anthony. He makes me laugh especially when he's being stupid. He mostly annoys me though, but I don't know. I think that's one of the reasons why I love him. Does that even make sense? It doesn't, not to me, but I still think it's true. Anyway, not everything that's real necessarily makes sense.

One time he said something really dumb. I think it went along the lines of "You look like a hag in that dress." I had saved up for that dress, possibly a month's worth of allowance, or maybe more.

I wore it at a party I knew he'd be in, thinking he'd say something nice for once. I washed my hair and fixed it up nice and even allowed my mom to finally put make-up on my face, then I snuck into my sister's room to use her "very expensive perfume from her thoughtful and sweet boyfriend," as she put it. She wanted to kill me the next day when she found out that I had used it without her permission. Even more when she found out that I had used a lot. I wanted to make sure it would stay on long enough for him to know that I was wearing it. "God, you're such a little shit," was all she kept saying. And she rolled her eyes whenever I'd be in her way and stuff. Anyway, my dad dropped me off at the party and I saw people at the front of the house acting stupid and drunk. I guessed there was alcohol but when my dad asked about it, I lied and told him that they were naturally dumb and acted that way all the time.

I felt pretty sophisticated when I walked through the door. I held my head up high and straightened my back. The entire place reeked of smoke and sweat and everywhere I looked people were either drinking or trying to dance dirty with each other or falling over themselves. I tried to look for my best friend, Annie, but I couldn't find her. Later, I found out that she had been kissing the host upstairs in his room.

Anyway, I saw him sitting in the den with a couple of his friends after I gave up looking for Annie. I smoothed my hands over my dress and coughed softly. He lifted his head and took one long look at me. I felt my heart rise up to my throat as the corners of his mouth lifted. Then he said, "You look like a hag in that dress," or something to that effect. I tried to say something equally witty and painful, but all that came out was a weak reply. I pretended it didn't get to me by hanging around for a while, but after a couple of minutes, I stood up without excusing myself and went out to look for a telephone. I found one in the kitchen, where a couple of kids were playing the card games I never really liked, and whispered for my dad to pick me up. He had just gotten home from dropping me off.

When I got home, I took off the dress, sat at the foot of my bed and cried for a little while. Then, I folded the dress and put it in the farthest end of my closet, where I could never see it again.

There was this one time, though, when my dog died. I went to school looking terrible and bleary-eyed with grief. He asked me what had happened during lunch and I told him flat-out that I didn't want to talk about it. Then he got very quiet and just sat down beside me while I pretended I wasn't crying. He took my hand under the table and we just sat like that until the break was over.

It's been twelve years. I see him every once in a while, at bars with his co-workers, in church with his family, and sometimes at parties with his girlfriend, who is a pediatric oncologist and a couple years his senior. They're about to get married. In a month, I think. I was invited, but I have to fly out for a seminar on the same week.

I turn on my side every night and face the window. I think about the day his sweaty hand held mine in a painfully sweet and awkward effort to comfort me. My husband reaches out to hold me but I gently shrug him off. "It's hot, honey," is all I say. He kisses the back of my head and in a couple of minutes I hear soft snores coming from the other side of the bed.

You'd think that time would make things different, but it never really does. We just look older, dress better, get jobs, and start going our separate ways. But feelings never really change, and neither do we.

The Job

2007-08-26T08:17:00.000-07:00

The room was dank and smelled of wet crevices and mould. He rapped on the wall with a closed fist. "Allistair," he called out softly. There was no reply, as expected. He smiled in the dark, a tight smirk that mirrored his thoughts. "Allistair," he murmured again, taking one cautious step forward as his eyes began to adjust. This time, a soft, guttural moan answered him. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, one corner of his lips turning up.

Through the darkness, he could see the shadowy silhouettes of the objects littered on the floor. An old telephone with its receiver displaced, the cord a messy tangle on the carpet. Boxes, an ashtray, magazines and a glimmering pool of something that seemed to be trickling down from-ah, there he was.

The body was on the bed, face-up, with one hand dangling at the footboard. His head was tilted at an odd angle, presumably the source of the crimson river gathering on the carpet.

"Well, I didn't think you'd be awake to see me, but hey there, I'm here to take you back. I'm Witman, from the company."

Another low groan escaped from Allistair's throat.

Witman slid both hands under Allistair's body and proceeded to lift him off the bed. The low groan turned into a full scream, though the other man remained stiff and heavy in Witman's arms.

"Oh for Chrissakes, how am I supposed to even get you outta here if you're screaming in my goddamn ear?" Witman muttered. "I shoulda brought the damn tranquilizer. I keep forgetting, I mean they always remind me, but I keep on goddamn forgetting."

The screaming ceased, but the whimpering returned.

"They always tell me, you gotta do it right this time, but I got a lotta things on my mind, you know. I'm trying to make something outta my life, if you want to know the truth." Witman paused and leaned Allistair's weight on his left knee so he could wipe his forehead, then propped his leg up so he could slip his other hand back under Allistair's body. "Heavy sonuvabitch," he gasped, "I didn't know the company hired your type. Nuts, I have one hell of a job getting things done and I'm like, half of your fuckin' body mass or something."

Witman began to teeter under the weight, then finally regained his balance and continued walking out of the room. In the dim light of the corridor, he could finally see how the other man looked like. Allistair was in his late 30's, at least, or in his mid-40's. He had a deep gash running across the side of his head, which had been cleanly shaven. A thick moustache partly covered his upper lip, which was thin, dry, and pale. He had one scar directly below his lower lip, not quite on his chin. His eyes were shut, and his nose was thin and aquiline. He smelled like blood, sweat, and lobster thermidor. Witman remembered his Physics professor as he looked at the heavy bloodied man in his arms and tried to shake off thoughts of centers of mass and trajectories as he ambled out of the empty hotel, Allistair in tow. "Give me a sec, will ya," Witman told Allistair, who was weaving in and out of consciousness. He gently lay him on the ground, then walked over to the '65 Chevrolet Impala waiting for him in the deserted parking lot.

"Ahh, Christ," Witman wheezed, picking up a half-empty bottle of water and unscrewing the cap. He took one long drink, until the last drop, then tossed the plastic bottle into the backseat. "I'm getting too old for this goddamn job." He took a deep breath and surveyed the area, then returned to Allistair, who was now fully unconscious.

Witman picked the body up and summoned the final vestiges of his strength to move towards the car, where he lay Mark Allistair in the backseat with the empty water bottle.

Then, fishing for the matchbox in his pocket, he moved to the greasy, glittering trail of gasoline he had painstakingly set around the hotel earlier. "Damn job," he muttered under his breath as he lit the stick and tossed it to where the trail began. He began to walk away, an easy, loping, artless gait that showed no trace of fear or anxiety. He had done this before. It would all be over in an hour.

"They don't pay me enough, I tell you," he said to an unmoving Allistair, who now lay close to death on the leather carseat. "They don't pay me damn near enough."

Angel

2006-02-14T02:11:00.000-08:00

She wore her hair down, like a veil, only it didn’t cover her face. “Your hair is your crowning glory,” she told me as she bathed her hair in a mist of Aqua Net. I loved the dangerously sweet, dizzying smell of it, so I always stayed beside her whenever she fixed up her beautiful mane of rich, dark brown hair. She shook her head gently, checking the acid test of strength and staying power. Her hair swayed in one stiff, uniform motion. She smiled at me. “Perfect,” she would say, then she picked up a tube of lipstick, reapplying one more coat to her already rouged lips. They looked like they weren’t part of her, almost like they were alive. Two fiery red horizontal crescent-moons against the immaculate white sky of her delicately powdered face. “You’ll behave, won’t you, sweetheart?” she cooed sweetly. Her voice was like the music that came from the porcelain jewelry box that she kept in her vanity. “I will, Mommy.” She smiled serenely and kissed my waiting cheek. Her lipstick felt waxy against my skin. She wiped it away with her handkerchief that she had doused lightly with Chanel Cristalle, the only perfume she insisted on wearing. One time my father had given her Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps and she had given him a thin-lipped smile and a cool stare as she gently placed the yellow box by her bedside table. My father understood his mistake and replaced it the very next day. “Ladies always carry hankies in their purses,” she told me once. After that day, I made sure to always pick out a neatly-pressed handkerchief from my dresser before I left for school.

Now, many years have passed and she is just a shadow of the glorious, incandescent angel she once was. The beautiful mass of rich chocolate waves has lost its gloss and hue. The fire in her eyes has almost died out. Sometimes she sits by the window, tracing invisible lines in the glass. Her sad sighs fill the cracks and the spaces of the room she once shared with my father. She lies in bed often, silent and motionless, waiting for the day when she will finally be adored and beautiful again, where my father will be standing at the door with a kiss waiting on his lips. And she’ll say “you’ll behave, won’t you sweetheart?” Then, with a tinkling, crystalline laugh and the swishing of Peau de Soie, she is gone. All that is left is the faintest scent of Cristalle and the ghost kiss on my cheek.

Plane

2006-02-14T02:10:00.000-08:00

The doorbell rings while I am sitting in bed, wondering if I was wrong for wanting anything to happen. And something does happen. I am confused as it is already 10:23 on the clock. Late at night and someone is at the door. A little scared, too, because I am not expecting anyone. I push the covers off me and slip out of bed slowly. My feet finally touch the floor, as cold as my skin. My heart is strangely steady and it pounds a dull rhythm against my chest. I turn off the airconditioning, just in case my visitor wants to stay a little bit longer. The electric bill was terrible last month; no point in a repeat performance.

My steps are timid and soundless against the planks of weathered wood. It’s so quiet that I can hear my breathing: irregular and shallow. I make my way down the steps in total darkness, then flick the switch to the light on. My eyes adjust to the brightness that floods the room. The doorbell rings again, not from impatience, but just as a reminder. I lick my lips, trying to save the cracked skin, then I move forward.

The living room is still. Everything is still, except for my heart, which by now is racing against my chest. I can’t seem to move. My eyes are locked on the door that is the only thing keeping me from whoever it is waiting to see me. With a sharp breath, I reach out to grasp the knob and turn it quickly. No turning back now. I open the door.

And he is there.

He tries to appear as though it was a mistake. “I was just passing by,” he offers pitifully but he knows that I know better. I smile to make it better, to ease the pain of his humility. He smiles back. “It’s so late, I should get going.”

“Okay,” I say. Then he rakes his fingers through his hair and coughs with awkward precision. “I love you,” he says quickly, like an afterthought. I know him so well and I’ve waited for this so long that I find it easy to forgive him.

I look at him, my heart aching so badly that it feels like it could burst. I know I look ridiculous in my oversize pajamas with enormous yellow ducks but he is looking at me like I am the queen of the universe. His eyes are full of tears that I know he is willing not to shed. “Sorry, I’m an idiot,” he says. “I should go.”

He makes a motion as if to leave, but he doesn’t.

I realize that this is the perfect time, the only time. “Thank you,” is all I can say as I slip my arms around him. He understands perfectly; knows that what I really meant to say is “I love you too” and possibly even “I love you more.”

He holds me for as long as he can, then his arms go slack and he lets go of me. He steps back to look at me and then he smiles, a sad sort of smile. “Bye.”

I nod, my lips trembling, my entire body shaking. “Bye,” I reply. My voice is broken, and so is my heart.

He takes my hand and presses it to his chest, never taking his eyes off me. “Don’t forget me,” he says. With that, he lets go.

Then, he is gone.

Panaginip

2006-02-14T02:08:00.000-08:00

Ikaw ay akin habang sumisikat ang araw
Habang maliwanag pa ang mundo
Ngunit pagpasok ng dilim,
pagdating ng buwan at ng mga bituin,
Ika'y sakop na ng gabi
at unti-unting nawawala sa akin

Pikit-mata, tumatakas ka sa yakap ng paniginip
at iniiwan akong nag-aantay sa iyo

Pilit kong sinasara ang aking mga mata
Umaasang sumunod sa iyo
Ngunit ako'y napupunta sa ibang lugar
kung saan namumuhay
ang mga usa at agila

Kung saan ang mga bituin ay kumikislap
kahit sumisikat pa rin ang araw
kung saan matatagpuan
ang lahat ng mga alaala
na nanggaling sa aking kamusmusan

Kung saan
wala ka

Nasaan ka ngayon?
Nakaupo sa itaas ng bahaghari sa kalangitan?
Nakasakay sa isang higanteng hayop sa Delhi?
Lumalaban sa digmaan ng Mactan?
Lumalangoy sa ilog ng Jordan?

Nais kitang makasama sa iyong panaginip
sapagkat ito ang iyong huling lihim sa akin

Ikaw ay akin habang sumisikat ang araw
Habang maliwanag pa ang mundo
Ngunit pagpasok ng dilim,
Iniiwan mo akong nag-aantay sa iyo

Yesterday

2006-02-14T02:07:00.000-08:00

Today, he barely looked my way. I tried catching his gaze whenever I'd pass him, but he would just see right through me and walk past. Wounded, I walked up to him at the end of the day. He was bending over the drinking fountain, his lips searching out the continuous spray of water rushing out of the spout. I waited for him to finish. I knew that he knew I was standing there in front of him. He tried to prolong what he was doing for a few more seconds until he realized that I wasn't about to leave until he acknowledged my presence.

His foot left the pedal and the stream of water stopped.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned to me.

"Hey," he said to me. "What are you doing here?"

I shrugged. "I'm thirsty."

He looked around, then looked at me. "Okay, then. I'll see you around."

He offered a quick smile then he walked away.

Sunset

2006-02-14T02:05:00.000-08:00

The sky cast a sleepy amber glow over the earth as the last rays of the sun set ended their voyage. A lucid silence embraced the living and those who slept in the eternal repose of death. Everything was still. The two young lovers leaning against the wise and somnolent tree, with its roots deep in the bosom in the earth, shared one last kiss before they expelled their last breaths. Their limbs were entwined together as they searched out each other’s lips before their final sighs escaped from their fragile bodies.

As the day came to a close, so did the lives of these two tragic lovers whose lives did not belong to the earth, but to the eternal mystery of the night sky who beckoned for them to come home.

Dragonflies

2006-02-14T02:04:00.000-08:00

"Do you love me?"

An awkward silence filled the air for a second. He was taken by surprise. I could tell because his eyelids flew open, revealing startled eyes. But only for a second, because he loved me.

"You know the answer to that, angel," he replied.

"I'm asking and I want to hear it," I said.

"Yes."

I turned on my side so that I would be facing him, who was staring at the late afternoon sky. Dragonflies with crystal eyes and wings hovered above us, darting to and fro, but stopping every so often to catch their breath, I think. Do dragonflies catch their breath?

"Just say it, Jay," I said, trying my best not to sound too petulant. I felt my mouth pout reflexively.

He turned towards me with an amused half-smile on his mouth. There was a watermelon-colored stain on his left cheek from the kiss I had pressed against it earlier. "I love you, Carla," he said. His cheeks flushed while he said it, but his eyes twinkled.

I smiled, satisfied. "Okay." A silence stretched out between us. Not awkward this time. Just nice and warm and comfortable. His hand found mine. I tried to pull my hand away because it was sweaty, but he just held on tighter. I smiled and he smiled and we both lay there holding hands and smiling. We both watched the plane slowly making its way in the sky. It fit in between my thumb and my pointer when I held the two close enough to each other to make a small slit.

I knew that summer would soon be over and that the bright, almost-neon green grass in the field we lay on would turn into a dead shade of brown. I knew that the flowers and the fruits and the dragonflies would also be gone. The world was full of impermanence and temporary beauty, but our clasped hands, his sweet reluctance, and our shared smiles and silence.. They all assured me that what we had would not fade like the dying sun setting in the distance. The sun sent out the last of its rays and immersed the field with its almost-neon green grass, the dragonflies with crystal eyes and wings, and the two kindred spirits lying on the grass with their fingers intertwined, in its warm glow.

A Beautiful Day

2006-02-14T02:03:00.000-08:00

The sun was shining brightly on our faces and we sucked in the wind in as it rushed past us like a current. The smell of the fields was weaved with the sweet smell of palm trees and evaporating rain. Our hearts were racing wildly with the feeling of the sun, the wind, and the knowledge that we were free. Free from responsibilities, free from exams, free from nights filled with caffeine and worry, free from the dread of receieving newly checked papers from smug professors and bitter old maids who resented the fact that we were brilliant and young. The van's faulty tank left streaks of gasoline rainbows in its wake, mixing with puddles of rainwater. It was, indeed, a beautiful day.

Wonderland

2006-02-14T02:01:00.000-08:00

"Hello," he said to me.

"I am dreaming," I said aloud.

"Yes."

And with that, he was gone.

I should not have admitted it. Perhaps he was embarrassed about being discovered, because I was back in the room with no windows and a small ventilator.

I looked at my wrist where the pain was still raw and red. I felt silly for doing it. I touched the jagged line with one hesitant finger.

I clucked my tongue at the thin sheets that were stained with much evidence of my stupidity. "He will be upset," I said to myself in a scolding tone.

I gathered the sheets into my arms and tried to find a place to hide them, but there was nowhere to. I stood up and walked to the ventilator, then reached up and stuffed them into the spaces around the fan. There was more darkness because of this and only a small, crooked slit of light managed to force its way into the room.

I went back to the small bed with splinters sticking out of the weak wood and sat on the flimsy cushion.

I liked the man in my dream. He had brown-green-grey-black-purple-neon pink eyes and a familiar smile. He smelled like hazel, rain, and the sea. I liked him more than William and his cold blue eyes that never seemed to see me anymore.

"You're sick, Allie. Very sick," he had said to me.

I touched my forehead with the back of my hand and only felt skin. "I am fine, William."

"You need help."

"I can feel my forehead just fine, William. I don't like other people
touching me."

"You need help," he said again, not hearing me.

And so he sent me away like a package and I was put in the room with no windows. Every so often, a woman in a deceiving white dress and a silly nurse's cap came in to take me to see Dr. Something-or-Other who would ask me about how I was like when I was a child or how I was feeling, trying to uncover some nonexistent skeletons in my closet.

"You are making a lot of progress," Dr. Something-or-Other would say after every session. I would say "thank you, Doctor," and the woman in her silly white dress and cap would usher me to the room with no windows again.

Today, scissors slipped out of the woman's pocket. They looked very lonely sitting on the floor. She did not seem to notice, so I took them and slipped them under the sleeves of my shirt.

I fell asleep soon after I made the line on my wrist. And that was when I met him.

I like him better than anyone else in this stupid world.

I try to fall asleep again. This time, I will not tell him that I know he is not real. Maybe this time, he will not leave.

Night Drive

2006-02-14T01:59:00.002-08:00

I took her for a ride in my father's car the first time she agreed to let me see her. Her hair became the wind and the night sky as I pulled down the hood and began to drive. Her eyes reflected the light of the stars and the moon. She laughed as I have never heard any girl laugh before as we sped across the highway. Her laughter was childlike and pure and it tinkled like bells in my ears. She pressed her lips together to control herself, but it was a futile attempt for she let out that enchanting laughter once again, and suddenly the world was new to me and I was in love.

I did not want the night to end. I wanted it to go on like the endless expanse of the universe that stretched on far beyond what we could see as we looked up to stare at the stars. I wanted to keep her, her laughter and the entire moment forever.

I did not want to let her out of the car, for I knew that once she stepped out, she would be marred with the reality of life and growing older.. The hurt of a broken heart and the disappointment of things not going the way she had planned.. The bitter pain of rejection and the sleepless nights of trying to figure out how to pay the bills and what her children's breakfast would be the next day..

These things would hurt her and would take away the stars in her eyes and the bells in her laughter. They would make her eyes glassy and dazed and her heart shriveled and tired.

I kept driving for as long as I could. Sometimes I caught her falling asleep. Her head would be nestled on the thick support of the seatbelt and her lips would be slightly parted, always in a half-smile. Other times, I looked at her and she would be regaining consciousness. Her eyes would flutter open and her cheeks presumably, though I could not really tell, would flush from the embarrassment of being caught falling asleep.

I drove around the city with its bright neon lights and distinct loudness. There were noises everywhere, but the only thing I listened to was the sound of her breathing.

"Michael?"

Her voice was soft, but clear.

I turned towards her.

"It's almost eleven. Dad's expecting me home soon."

I nodded and smiled at her, and she smiled back, and it was then that I drove her home.

Dry

2006-02-14T01:59:00.000-08:00

My lips are dry and I lick them slowly and deliberately to save them from their parched state. I press them together to seal in the moisture. I wet them again for good measure.

After a few seconds, they begin to crack from the heat.

Above

2006-02-14T01:57:00.000-08:00

Though I can't hear your laughter from where I sit, I imagine it filling up the distance between you and me.

Moon

2006-02-14T01:51:00.001-08:00

Starry, starry night and the blanket was warm on our skin. We took turns drinking from the bottle that held fire and water while the sun glowed softly through the moon. It was his last night on earth.

“I’ll miss you,” he told me.

I said nothing as I moved my hands over my bare legs. Our skin was translucent in the moonlight.

“I’ll think of you while I’m up there,” he said softly. “About this night and how I was here with you.”

Still I said nothing. I just looked up and wondered with a growing despair how long it would take for him to come back to me.

“Think of me when the night arrives. I’ll be there, watching over you.”

The next day, he was gone, but when evening came, he was there, shining on me from the night sky.

Glass

2006-02-14T01:51:00.000-08:00

A clear compartment

of intricate design

that holds the cool elixir

that they put to the two parted gates

when they have withered and cracked

It empties itself accordingly

(depending on the velocity of their hands)

When clumsily neglected

it races downard and screeches

as it scatters to the ground

many and one

Another exercise in defamiliarization a long time ago.

Nail Cutter

2006-02-14T01:27:00.000-08:00

It is cool to the touch

and angular in shape

Its jaws are sharp yet smooth

and its sole wing flaps flightlessly

preparing the creature to feast

on the helpless white buds

that sprout from thin stalks

rooted in a bulbous anchor

It attacks with voracious ferocity

No warning, none at all

Save for that of the flightless wing

preparing, in vain, for flight

An exercise in defamiliarization in fourth year high school.