spirit of the candles.

Tonight, as I light up the candles you left on the bedside table, I think of the question you had asked before you closed the door. What could have been different? Perhaps that scent of yours not branded by any perfume. Or that gaze of yours to my dry lips. Or the way our fingers … Continue reading spirit of the candles.

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these glittering lights.

Before our hands even touch to dance, I sense a false hope, but I try not to show my dismay. I move along with the rhythm of the music, the sadness of the two bodies in an empty room, and the thousand possibilities of how the night would end, or the dawn would begin. I … Continue reading these glittering lights.

the january starts.

Missing last year’s November and December posts smashes my heart. I failed with my own discipline. I could use the excuse of the university workload, but I do not think it is fair. I have had free times then in which I could have written some words, some thoughts even, but I did not. It … Continue reading the january starts.

reckless.

Tonight, I want to imagine a pair of technicolor faces without remorse or blue. However, as I travel the roots of my hopes, I keep finding the road to a pair of lost minds, trying to find their ways in each other’s thoughts, but, indeed, without success. It is nobody’s fault, but the two of … Continue reading reckless.

fall back.

Every morning, as the winter wind drifts through my scarf-covered neck, the presence of courage lives. In the spectrum of the sun, there is a hope I protect—the part of my spirit I pray for, to not be extinguished by my terrible lightheartedness. I see you when the bell rings without an exchange of conversation, … Continue reading fall back.

the last sight.

The sunrise is about to come and we are on our usual spot to watch it. The rooftop of the condominium where we live is isolated at these hours and will only be crowded by the laundrymen at around noon. For now, the place is our cocoon. Stella asked me to meet her today to … Continue reading the last sight.

traditional letter.

I fold the traditional goodbye letter and place it on your bedside table before I sneak out while you sleep. My train will leave in forty-five minutes, but I am not scared of being late. More than anything, I fear the letter and its mission. I lock your front door and I leave the key … Continue reading traditional letter.

snowflake.

When the first snowflake falls, my fingertips rush to touch its sensitive, cool skin to recollect the last winter we spent. On the ice rink, we danced in our helpless movements, and the loss of grace had never been a problem. The sincerity of the shared laughter almost arrested the beat of my pulse, and … Continue reading snowflake.

thunderstruck.

After he woke up from the thunderstrike, he cut his neck with a knife. He shot his head with a shotgun. He hanged himself with the thickest rope. He crashed his car to a tree. Still, he lived. As an immortal man, he despised the creeping loneliness he always felt. He pleasured himself as he … Continue reading thunderstruck.

like lost puzzle pieces.

One of the strings of letters I feared to tell you was the mask I placed on my bored face whenever you played my skin as if they were made of the stars in the night sky. Sometimes, I still asked myself why I gripped on this dread when I could just throw you away … Continue reading like lost puzzle pieces.

brush strokes.

Last night, before I slept, my chest hurt as if I’d been shot instead of her. Today I go to the same, but abandoned castle, and I touch the stone brick walls. Two years ago, I could have just travel to Genevieve’s time of 1815 without trying. But since her original year of death in … Continue reading brush strokes.

broken bottles.

The Giant is the closest supermarket to my apartment. I go there in the broad daylight together with the pensioned elders shopping for one unnecessary item to talk to the cashiers about their ongoing life gossips. I grab four bottles of wine before I swipe the rest, and they crash on the floor. The commotion … Continue reading broken bottles.

house of stars.

My wife is still a beautiful woman. She’s bald and wears hospital gowns, but she’s a dove. Every night, she asks me to open the window to watch the stars. She tells me to look at those little lights when sorrow comes or my longing deepens. The week after she died, I sell our house … Continue reading house of stars.

potion.

I cut my finger as I chop the onions. Maria hurries to my side and sees the blood. I ask her not to worry. She bites her lower lip, and seats. I want to cook the dinner for our date. I read earlier my grandmother’s spell book and my blood was the cherry for the … Continue reading potion.

closed for the summer.

I shop at her convenience store every day. It is two blocks away from my apartment in this ghost street. When the bell rings and she sees me, her lips twitch. I look at every product I already memorized along with its price to kill time and stay. In the counter, I get discounts. My … Continue reading closed for the summer.

the book to walk (away, take note).

She breathes the words of that book about the sea and its wind. The way the writer describes the tranquility of the sea and its storms underneath, plus let us not forget about the monsters, make her heart desire to wander around and search for her own. One day, she leaves me and becomes a … Continue reading the book to walk (away, take note).

vacation.

I live in the yacht now after my second week of stay. It started when Georgina—or is it Laney, I forgot—called me to tell me she’s pregnant. I packed my bags and took a vacation. I left my Captain in the station. I wanted to be alone and not hear another story about his lovely … Continue reading vacation.

the concrete cement.

She takes photos of everything. She presses the shutter button at the skyline view from the Ferris Wheel, the tourist couple behind her tickling each other’s tummy, the crying lost child in the corner, the two-goth couple kissing with tongue and sound, and my passive face watching her. She hands me the camera and asks … Continue reading the concrete cement.

to drive.

She lived in order. She followed the manual book or read the instructions included in anything she bought. Her favorite section had always been the cautions. When I gave her a car as our anniversary gift, she asked me for the guidebooks, but I told her it was safe to drive an automatic. The ambulance … Continue reading to drive.

the river’s presence.

I wish I have a pair of lips as soothing as the water that flows in your favorite river—that it may build the letters you need to hear to calm your heart. But within these tangled feathers of your dreamcatcher, I get caught and the two of us just become lost. The rain outside taps … Continue reading the river’s presence.

the lust in thoughts.

The flashes of the strobe lights hid the true form of your face. I could only see the lines of your jaw, the drop of your pointed nose, the plump of your lips, the long eyelashes you have, and the loss look of your left eye. In the sea of people, it was your distant … Continue reading the lust in thoughts.

ghost eyes.

Rose rests her head on my shoulder, taking a break from her murder. Her sister’s lifeless body lies before our feet. Her pool of blood reaches the soles of my shoes and I can’t believe I’m seeing my dead fiancé. Rose plucks out a cigarette stick and lights it. “Her wedding dress might not fit … Continue reading ghost eyes.

out of words

The green field, just below the rocky mountain we climbed for two days, was wet, but not muddy. The rain had started as soon as we dropped our bags and tents beside a tree. While I was shielding my glasses from the rain, you ran to the mellow touches of the grasses, spreading your arms … Continue reading out of words

the light tones.

One of the reasons I embrace the summer air is the love it exudes at the time of its sunset. The drools of the orange flames caressing my splintered skin with its silk-like heat, but never burning me to death—like you do. I watch you dip your paintbrush, used and barely wet, in the palette … Continue reading the light tones.

wars and stars.

I’m counting the stars from the floor of the dark forest. Without a tent, but with a campfire, I cloud each light with my finger, constructing my own constellation through my ghost touches. Beside my ear, I can hear your stable breathing. I gaze at your shut eyes and the slit of your lips, and … Continue reading wars and stars.

sea in a cup of tea.

Before you leave, I have to remind you to drink the coffee I prepared for you. To check if you have your car keys with you. To iron the folds and creases of your blouse with your palm. Before you close that door, you send me a warm gratitude without the brush of your lips … Continue reading sea in a cup of tea.

a foreign language.

What I had feared before happened tonight. My skin no longer recognized the graze of your fingers. Every grip and rip on my body sang a strange song to my ear. But I held your gaze and waited for your old soul to return—it did not. And so your eyes spoke the exhaustion to my … Continue reading a foreign language.

from an omen to a remorse.

Every healed wound I found on the land of your skin reminded me of the servant I became. For every open gash you brought to me came a stitch through my trembling fingers—a river of punctures into your stubborn skin, but you endured it with whiskey. I thought my anticipation and hunger to each of … Continue reading from an omen to a remorse.

whiskey and iced tea.

I made the whiskey my water, to quench the frost I needed to thaw. In a living room I shared with numerous strangers, some I had already tasted their foreign tongues, I gulped the brown liquor, glass by glass. The time I opened my eyes, I saw your figure in the corner. Your fingers bent … Continue reading whiskey and iced tea.

sandalwood candle.

It is past midnight and you are out here, somewhere far from my reach, but still around the neighborhood. Perhaps riding your bent bicycle, I am not sure. But you gaze at the stars, chin up to avoid the tears from plummeting to your cheeks (yet they still do), counting the endless lights above. Tonight, … Continue reading sandalwood candle.