To soldier on a love that was right, that was erroneous

A love that tried, a love that failed

A love that besought another shot, that crossed liminalities

A love that pierced into the mind, that crawled under the skin

A love that transcended seasons, that saw reasons.

To soldier on a love that is great, a love that is matched

A love that grows, a love that nourishes

A love that tolerates, a love that is faithful

A love that is patient, a love that is kind

A love that is jealous, a love that understands.

To soldier on a love in the bloodstream, that sings with the hormones

A love that consumes, a love that burns

A love that scars, a love that soothes

A love that is constant, a love that is sporadic

A love that fuels, a love that feeds.

To soldier on a love too much for my own good, a love that encourages

To soldier on a love that aches and pangs, a love that braves

To soldier on a love that I want, a love that is worth it

To soldier on a love with an Alpha Troglodyte.

To love is to die

In a thousand songs

That last infinitely

‘Til evermore

Persistently.

Yet to love is to live

In thousands of sunrises

Tantamount to thousands of sunsets

‘Til light lasts

And not.

To love is ice

Yet to love is fire

To love is to lose

And to be gone.

To love is mad.

To be asked to write my boyfriend’s sister’s valedictory address is more than great. To receive generous feedbacks about the speech is grand. To witness her give the speech, well, it’s heart-breakingly momentous. It made my heart swell. I was overwhelmed, indeed.

To be invited and insisted upon to come and join my boyfriend’s family dinner slash graduation dinner slash toast for his sister’s achievement as her high school batch’s valedictorian, it’s overwhelming. To feel more than welcome, it’s devastating. To feel that my presence was enjoyed and appreciated, it’s humbling. I was flabbergasted.

To be thanked for the night, my gaahd, it’s maddening. I love everyone already.

Lass in an Oak Tree

High in one, sagacious oak tree -

An onlooker to tedious, heterogeneous centuries

Of wars, of seasons, of hues

A home to mockingjays that often hum blues

Sits a lass, who smells of saccharine death,

Of perfidious kismet

In her hand, clutched, a posy of peonies

A salute to naught, to amiss

To semi-dried oak leaves

In her other hand, rucked, a tear-streaked epistle

A panegyric to cussed memoirs, to the Sirocco

To the oak’s leathered epidermis.

Mindlessly

In the pseudo-light and quasi-warmth
Of an embryonic golderflo
That graces a gray veldt – untrespassed
Where a clock is a laughing-stock
Where a sheep does not conform to a flock
Where cacophonous and euphonious fight
In an evermore, jading fright
Stands a lass, grasping a flute
Never blown; always mute
Deep into the whirl
Many have fiascoed to uncurl
.
In a thousand incertitudes
And conviction of never going nude
The lass trotted and moved
Yet she stilled; chained and mused
Into a trance: coming, yet seemingly sound
In her lucid dream, she braved
And swore that never will she be a slave
Before the eternally cryptic plague
And that never will she be a bore
As she half-lose herself into the surreal core
.
With the communal chants of the gypsies
Sprouts a fantasy filled with primroses and lilies
Perfuming the radical February air
Serenading the lass with saccharine éclair
As she poises her arms into a flute-panache
And permits herself to invasive soirees
To let her equivocal flute be blown
And to let herself past lone
Through liminalities, she transcends
Auto-summon as she bends
.

Transubstantiated

The white cloak gyrates with the Levanter

As it skins its tinny ebony pearls

That deprives the senses of the commoners

For it venoms their gullible cauliflowers

And echoes the vindictive smirk of the grim ripper

.

Three bean sidhes grieve contiguously far-flung

Into Wasteland: their songs wedged in the lungs

Their eulogies evermore vellicately sang

For the gems reel amidst impotent twangs

With their crusts reverberating clangs

.

 And so the hellion would grin

With avaricious eyes, in black-green

As the stars perfidiously careen

Pouched are the pearls, deemed clean

When everything is subject to sin

.

Schizophrenic Love at Its Best

Off of the road she stilled and mused

Upon the big wheel, in its synthetic air

Amidst the loops, she was more than enthused

Half-slave before the majestic flair

.

High in the air, master to a kite

Of quagmire stalactites, reflecting Lunar light

Phosphorescent as a chameleon’s chromatophore

Slim luck of being a constant bore

.

A snake biting its own tail – an oro boros!

With architectured, illuminated flaws

Equipped; seizures to an impressionable lass

Ferry her to a delusional lust.

.

Beckoned by the quasi-world, she moved

Mindlessly, into the pit, void of holy care

Yet she chanted with the gypsies

With her mind split in three’s

.

Damned if she does; damned if she doesn’t

Never a fan of won’t, in a lavish accent

“Do as I please.”

Therefore, an eternal tease

.

I told someone the three words, and meant it, really meant it. But instead of feeling relieved, all giddy and ecstatic, for the weight of the words bear was unleashed, I felt bad. Really bad. I didn’t know if the dents the words left deepened, or if they developed into a cheloid-ish scar. I felt empty. Like all I wanna do is curl up into a ball somewhere and be solitary. Or like I wanna be a cocoon. Just not this. Being a deaf-mute for real appealed to me like flashing neon signs in a mirror house. Maybe it’s because I could never be naked, exposed, and vulnerable? I dunno. Why am I this damaged and crooked? Is this my place?

Some cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

I do not think I’m immune, just because I don’t want it to happen.

Even while I love him, I expect the worst of him. Because it is safer that way, because all my life fantasies of the past has been safer than fantasies about the future; I couldn’t protect myself from the future as I could against the past.

I understand that truth casts a spell of its own.

Hey, Mister Snowman

A wife not, but a woman

Neither a lady nor a queen

Leave some things unseen

In the snow, pseudo-pristine

As we drunkenly careen

.

Hey, Mister Snowman

Mellow on our quarterly affair

Muster your wintry flair

And fill it with éclair

With you, I would be bare

Through liminalities, we’ll flare

.

I’ve been thinking about us for a while now, come December. Maybe it was the punch of dread and excitement of the idea of seeing you more often, like everyday, for nine days during the customary Simbang Gabi than of a year’s time. Don’t inflate your ego yet; hearing the Masses to see you is secondary. You realize, we live in a street, with only several roofs between ours, but we don’t get to see each other. Rare times. We’re lucky if we run across each other for five times in a year, excluding the course of the Simbang Gabi. That exotic.

Truth be told, I have been hoping to see quite a lot of you during the Simbang Gabi. C’mon, we dated each other for two years, and I missed you. In fact, I would like to befriend you. To rediscover you. To know what changed in you, if I still know you. To confirm my feelings for you, and your feelings for me. We still have feelings for each other, that I am certain of. I just don’t know the nature and depth of them. To figure if we still have the connection.

I’ve been convincing myself that I no longer want to be an item with you again. I supposed I knew enough. And I’ve been magnifying my feelings for my first boyfriend, which isn’t you. But you were my first real boyfriend. It’s just that I love that guy, and I love you, too. I don’t know how can that happen, but I know it’s true. I love both of you. Or maybe, the two of you are just very dear and special to me. I myself do not even understand.

Prior to the Simbang Gabi, I’ve had a little chat with a girl friend about you. After three years, I finally have admitted to myself that maybe, just maybe, I still have hope for us. We were epic, and you were the best. And I have come to realize that among all the guys I have met and known, you seem to be the most suitable, if not compatible, for me. But you see, I wouldn’t like to be in a match based on suitability. I am not exactly sure what made me think so. Maybe it’s because I’ve been with you, and I know that we can be what we were – great and happy. Maybe it’s because no one yet rivals you in effort and persistence on me, and I can really be a royal pain in the ass. And it is maddeningly arduous to compare other guys with you, for I think you are one of the best.

When I have been you during the Masses, I have this urgency to talk to you, but I never did. You know me; I am not a fan of approaching people. I’m indifferent. I want you to take the first step, for I feel that you would like to reacquaint yourself with me, too. Maybe this is one of my games. I don’t know.

We had our date yesterday, and it only had just added to my reconsideration and musing. We missed each other. We discoursed about us. We had fun. We enjoyed each other. And I know we discover some things for ourselves. We changed. We grew up. And I feel quite morose, for I no longer have the rights that were once mine. You know, like sitting juxtaposed you and not being able to touch you or lean on you, not that you didn’t want me to. It’s maddening. I’m even more confused. Do I want you back? Do I want us back?