Noodles

It’s almost 1:30 AM, and you may have guessed it- I can’t sleep.

It’s as if there’s a hidden agenda that blocks me out from slumbering into the night. I always like to believe that every sleeper had to cease through their daily hindrances to accomplish their triumphant sleep. But how about the insomniacs and those who force to gain their feat by intaking sleeping pills? Well, I don’t know much and I can’t blame them- life was already an obstacle to begin with anyways.

Still, I haven’t figured out what’s bothering my inconsistent, perfect dose of sleep. I’m too numb to look into my thoughts and collect all of the nits; I’ll just leave them to breed for tomorrow’s morning angst. Perhaps, I will forget them altogether- at least that’s what I’m hoping for. I wouldn’t want to spend my divine time contemplating personal petty issues. Heck, I should get used to them by now. After all these years of teenage heartaches and typical dejection, I need to step up in my game; bring up the barrier and just enjoy life to the fullest.

(Sheesh, I’m even using corny statements to come out blunt.)

Apparently, it’s past 2AM now and my eyelids aren’t heavy enough to be drifting off. I think it’s the adrenaline rushing; I got excited for a brief while after I entertain the idea of cooking pasta tomorrow, with my special and “I haven’t experimented it yet” sauce. It’s all thanks to the endless amount of cooking videos that got me all hyped up. It’s not that I’m craving for pasta, it’s more of the pride that I could entitle myself right after the outcome. I’m only an amateur cook who is still doubting whether or not cooking is part of my hobby. I mean, I hoard hobbies to grease and flex out my creativity, so this is just a good creative outlet with an edible reward.

Hm, thinking about all of this makes me want to sleep. Or preferably, hasten the night to a whole new beginning of– pasta.

I seriously need to sleep.

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Adieu

It was the summer of twenty-fifteen.
I had to take extra classes
to fill in the gaps of my naivety.

Basic education needs, I mean.
When I started freshmen year,
I was lacking five months of hell.
My high school starter pack
wasn’t fully wielded.
Those five months were secondhand days,
those became hand-me-downs–
I’ll never come back to it anyways.

This was when I realised
I had to throw away the bliss of my childhood
to take a swift dive into the realms of
catching teenage hormones
and all those juvenile shenanigans.

You see, when I was disbanded from my home soil,
I was the new girl, the shy-type,
but never “the girl next door”.
That cliché never suited me.
I’ve moved in many apartments,
I rarely saw my neighbours.
This time, I finally live in a proper house
like a suburban mom’s dream.
Still, my new neighbours were
a bunch of lanky grasses and greens.

Though,
how could–
of all the places we could have bumped in,
my fairytale started in my Filipino class.
I was the only one there,
I was the class’ only student, present.
This wasn’t destiny, really.
I just really sucked at that language.

So, I had my nose pointing each word
coming from a romantic paperback
I got from the airport’s bookstore.
I was ignoring time
and when the teacher will arrive.
The writing had me so engrossed,
I couldn’t hear the footsteps
of him entering in.

“You’re an introvert,” he said.

And so the rest begins there.

He was scrawny, chocolate-skinned
and his hair goes in a hurricane direction,
as I had noticed.
He wears clothes
that can piss off a weatherman.
He wears his eccentricity like a crown,
he talks too much, reads too much,
knows too much–
and I somehow like him.

Every time my head were to hid behind
strange universes,
he would come to the class and grab me away
by letting out a subtle whistle
(I wish to hear it every day)

Then, we would talk. Well, he talked,
you could call him a pseudo-intellectual
or straight out pretentious.
He’s like a Wikipedia page,
constantly refining and re-editing.
I thought he’s everything I need
until I found out
that I can’t decide whether or not
I should trust him.
His sources had me confused
with greed.

Somehow, I still like him.

He wrote me two letters,
four pages in total.
The first one, he mimicked
Beethoven’s love letter.
The second, he blabbers about
Tchaikovsky’s sweet melodies.
In return, I wrote a hundred of poems,
(that I never shared with him),
I called him “the Person,”
cause his name was too sacred for me.
I could be the patron saint
of helpless teenage girls,
because this is what I think
love is supposed to be.
being naive always does
these little things to me.

He had a bag full of flaws,
but he wrote beautifully,
he likes politics and the flaws,
but he wrote beautifully.
He’s never good at keeping promises,
but he wrote beautifully.
Thick-skinned, sugar-coated, outspoken,
He had always been my favourite book.
More of a short story, I’d say.

I know him long enough
to see him everywhere,
I could catch his aroma anywhere
from the school’s premises.
I could catch a glimpse of him
even from meters away.
I know the way he walks,
his gestures and his ungraceful charms
by heart.
he was my favourite advertisement,
but I usually skipped them.
he was my favourite kind of vandalism
until it got out of hand.
he was my favourite art
until you discover that there are
places that needed to be fixed.
(but you can’t)

There can be a time where his silence
seems like he never existed
in the first place.
That was the worst kind of torture
for the summer of twenty-sixteen,
for a hopeless girl like me.
He came back eventually
and we played pretend that it never happened.
We talked over at text messaging
and I was all giddy.
A few days later, I erupted out a “Fuck you.”
And I had to call out his name.

But what the fuck, I still like him.
I just had to ignore him.

It was then our school’s Christmas play
came to a quick end.
I lacked five months of him,
thought I’ll never come back to it anyway.
I was alone on the steps, this time,
reading a book on my phone.
Then he came,
that same subtle whisper
flow through my ears
and all of his faults became strangers.
Our petty fights turned into fluffs.
All the things I knew,
they became myths.
and these missing bits
continue to pile up my naivety.

That was enough to convince me
that it was love.
(Surely, it never is)

I remember someone told me
that he would always take a bow
and blurt out the word, “Adieu.”
Whenever he finished reciting.
“It was weird but amusing,” they say.
Like him.
Adieu.
I said that once to him as a tease
but I never fully mean it.

⠀⠀⠀

(Addendum I.)
⠀⠀⠀
Our love was never divine.
I was seen as a fragile china;
the world could have smashed me up by now.
He had been haughty and masked,
the world could have killed him by now.
To me, he was the comma,
I wish he could go on and on.
To him, I could be the period.
I always come to an abrupt stop
and the quiet would fill us.
Though
I’m familiar with his hopes and dreams,
I bet he knew mine too.
The seam came clean
but the patches were overdue.

Our love goes like this:
I still kept his books.
He handed me James Joyce,
I never returned it for a year or so.
He wanted Joyce back,
so in return, he let me decide
on two books I could borrow.
I grabbed both, left
and we never brought that up ever again.

“You two just never seem to understand
each others’ feelings,” my friend once said.
The truth is,
we knew them all along.
But what’s the point of building
on a fundamental flaw?

⠀⠀⠀

(Addendum II.)
⠀⠀⠀
It was near the summer of twenty-eighteen,
we had a year of on-and-off colloquies.
No more inquiries, no whistles.
Suddenly, he became that first person
that I bumped into
during my first summer class.
Except, he stayed that way.
Only those subtle glances
at one another
reminded me of our folded past
of mishaps, misunderstandings
and all the mushy things.

I hope you do too.

At that graduation ceremony,
you took your one last bow
together with your batch,
and I mumbled, “Adieu.”
Adieu
Adieu
Adieu.

(Thanks,
it was a whole journey
meeting you)

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Language Barrier

i’ll carve our names on a tree bark

with long-twig runes of elder futhark.

dead language, ancient sweethearts

and no one would know it was us.

unless someone appeared out of the blue,

figuring out what to do

with those markings made blissfully,

decoding how we weren’t meant to be

and antiquity shall lay eyes on me

for our love is not too prominent to see.

⠀⠀⠀

i think we are hiding behind metaphors

when there is no reason for,

and neither one of us is good at hyperbole

when our hearts talk, it’s just a folly.

but we can speak with eloquence,

shower ourselves with big words

until to the point, we would not understand,

“why does this language sounded dead to me?”

maybe your shallow feelings can’t be freed

and mine, perhaps, was stuck in that tree.

⠀⠀⠀

still, i keep a library of what you would say,

composed of poetic remarks and terms of gold

i would want to collect and decode

every witty expression or sentence,

but it’s tough to comprehend.

all the time, i knew his phrases,

i’m just a dead language translator

going through phases.

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To Make a Human

the cauldron fizzled and the steam arose,

blisters, weighing like thin air, began to float.

i gathered up ingredients to soon meld a being,

it will become a grand masterpiece!

⠀⠀⠀

for touches of shy and sweet spices,

sprinkle crystal-like sugar from sugar canes,

during the season of harvesting.

too much and a frenetic gets jumpy.

⠀⠀⠀

for the heart’s warmth and empathy,

collect ashes- residues from the fireplace,

during the hours of a frigid twilight.

too much and the wrath will ablaze.

⠀⠀⠀

for the sagacious mind to contemplate,

pile up milky strands of hair from hoary men

who immersed themselves with words.

too much and a cynic be bald.

⠀⠀⠀

for the humour and jests to laugh upon,

bottle up bubbly chuckles from other humans

during a comedic feast or a carnival show.

too much and malice becomes their satire.

⠀⠀⠀

i mingled all elements with a wooden spoon,

sang dulcet melodies for extra seasoning.

my mixture imploded with varied hues

composed of goodies to be fused.

⠀⠀⠀

but all became flawed with a tiny mistake,

a thread of my hair- my flaws and weaknesses,

fell to the amalgam, a new colour formed,

i was in tears until a human was born.

⠀⠀⠀

he emerged and his faint grin was first to be seen.

i threw away all thoughts of being a failure,

and realised, he too, is a fallible human.

then, a smile painted widely on my face,

“Perfect.”

⠀⠀⠀
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One Swallow Doesn’t Make a Summer

the love i once scattered on you,

were like rustling leaves

swaying to the rhythm of the wind.

together with autumn’s hues,

from pumpkin spice

to nutshells and acorns,

those are colours to warm you,

and your soft blue lips of ice

from last year’s winter feast,

when snowflakes were born.
⠀⠀⠀

the love you once pecked on me

was like air being taken away,

not in awe, nor amazed.

and the leaves in autumn

were maliciously stepped upon,

and crackling noises were heard,

but it’s probably from my heart.

and autumn’s hues

meant nothing to you

because your lips were never blue,

yet snowflakes covered you.

no warmth, but frosty bites,

and your heart was stiff as ice.
⠀⠀⠀

and when the snow starts to melt,

and the leaves decomposed,

i shall leave you all alone.

a welcome inside oblivion’s home

might help to warm my soul.

but in thoughts, you still appear,

and sometimes, it goes to the other ear.

i may not forget you right now

because love froze into a thick winter ice,

but slowly, it will melt each day.

and one day, i’ll be the autumn tree

who shakes every leaf away.

i know i’ll be empty.

but summer’s here and i’ll blossom.

and you will see the golden me.

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Nature Abhors a Vacuum

i am, to be ensnared by pieces of agony,

like an animal caged, and the rage is within me

the buried yelp arise but fades into silence,

and the craggy path I stepped upon has no ends.

the key to release me has been stolen,

the outside portrays the crumbled and the fallen.
⠀⠀⠀

all is left are the barriers, what a tragedy.

i could jam myself in the rooftop cranny,

but the triumph of gravity has let me down.

of wearing human skin, i’m no bird around.

to glide freely cost a batch of feathers.

only if i catch the essence of the weather,

i can soar back to the welkin yonder,

but i am left here to wander and ponder.
⠀⠀⠀

a bed of lilacs for a cosy home,

my eyes were desperate to see them alone.

yet thorns from fiends are only to be seen.

but the crack with the sun rising to beam

is my only hope to keep a sense of me.

wherever happens to my own glee,

is still out there, surrounding the air,

collided with woes, i bother not to care.

but every time i breathe, slowly, i decay.

everyday, i am a goner, why am i here to stay?
⠀⠀⠀

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Know Where All the Bodies Are Buried

she has plucked eyes from a young child.

naive, but the imagination is growing wild.

she has stolen the mind of an old man.

slowly withering, but wisdom is her friend.
⠀⠀⠀

she has a mimicked mouth of a public speaker.

talks more, and the words meant something deeper.

she has duplicated ears of a private listener.

talks less, puts down the mirror, and it wouldn’t be her.
⠀⠀⠀

she has chopped off hands from an artist.

creative, but putting the emotions at risk.

she has the decapitated head of a writer.

put it in the clouds, it will make her mightier.
⠀⠀⠀

she has the misplaced heart of a soldier.

vulnerable, and no, not a past holder.
⠀⠀⠀

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A Watermelon Grin

her watermelon’s shell

keeps the flesh well secured,

together with the seeds

not freed inside the flesh,

it’s easy to notice, but no luck

to pluck them out,

people leave it there as they devour,

and she keeps an empty bottle

to scout for the seeds

with her tiny tongs

until she got ill.
⠀⠀⠀

she displays every bottle

like a shelf of her worthiness.

it’s to remind herself

of her accomplishments.

and every seed that is spat out,

she pretends and takes it

as a token of gratitude

coming from the mouth
⠀⠀⠀

she grows more in her backyard,

she would have to plant, wait, lift

and slice to shape a perfect smile-

her perfect smile

to capture the outer part of her

and it took every courage

while the grind hides

the flesh of her crimson rage.
⠀⠀⠀

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