brighter than sunshine

i didn’t believe in destiny/i look up you're standing next to me/what a feeling

he is sitting on one of the stools in Seattle’s Best, waiting for his drink to arrive. he sees my reflection walking towards him and for some reason, he chokes on his saliva.

"so," i say as i hand him a glass of water. "i take your breath away, huh?"

what a feeling in my soul/love burns brighter than sunshine/let the rain fall/i don't care

the following afternoon he picks me up from my house. it’s raining. "brighter than sunshine" plays in the background on the way to the Fort, where we were gonna shop for more college-looking clothes. "you're an accident waiting to happen," he told me once. he doesn't say it, but i bet he's thinking it when i step into a puddle in flip-flops.

i'm yours and suddenly you're mine

i slip on my first top.
"do you have a mirror?" i ask the salesman.
"no, sorry. ask your boyfriend, o! he's the best mirror."
our eyes simultaneously widen.
"he's not..." i begin.
"i'm not..." he continues.
we look at each other and pause.

i never saw it happening/i'd given up and given in/i just couldn't take the hurt again/what a feeling

he shopped in Rockwell and toured Makati Cinema Square alone for the three and a half hours i was in rehearsals. i feel guilty. and hungry. i apologize when i see him at the lobby of the building.

"it's okay anns! i made friends with Ronald."
"Ronald?!"
"McDonald!" he says and he hands me McDonald’s fries, a bottle of water, and DVDs of Rent and Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind. two movies i’d been itching to watch but somehow misplaced at home.

i didn't have the strength to fight/suddenly you seemed so right/me and you/what a feeling

after dinner in Polo Club, we head for Starbucks Madrigal. over Tazo tea and a caramel macchiato, my long-term memory kicks in.

"hey, we were here before. a long time ago."
"yeah, and you were teasing me that i had hidden desire for you."
"i was?!"
"yeah!"
"omigod! that is so me to say something like that. that turned out to be true, didn’t it?!"
"..."

truth is, it was actually i who had hidden desire for him because i had a crush on him the moment we met.

love will remain a mystery/but give me your hand and you will see/your heart is keeping time with me.

we made it through the month-and-a-half in constant trepidation. i don't know if we'll ever take that leap of faith. he and i never talk about what "we" are until alcohol makes us. i don't want to demand for labels. not just yet. while others ask for a Happily Ever After, i’m alright with Happy Right Now.

inertia

this is a harmless obsession
this intermittent intrusion
of your silhouette
upon my thought
framed with a soft click and a flash
and barred from further consideration
your laughter in dreams heard
awoken from and willfully forgotten

or maybe not

they intrude echoed in conversations
with people who are not like you
who are more than you
so i ask why you of all should engage
my neurons pulsating in tales flowing through words
suctioned into a wormhole of what-ifs
arrested into pretty pictures of false memory

of the rain pattering on street puddles
electric starlight winding
around shrubs through mist
cold railing the curb on which we slump
i could smell the smoke
clinging to your shirt and
i hated it

but why are you still here
stuck like the last song
is it the weather
is it your grin
is it just me bored, humming
a catchy, artless tune?
but all is well and hurtless

between us is no equivalence
here is no gravity
and i don’t believe
in free fall



[source]

Your Way with Words

You've once written half a sonnet for and about me.

Nobody else has written poetry for or about me before or after you. And that's probably what makes you so damn special until now.

A Memory

It was a friend's birthday party, and they were just about to call it a night. The birthday girl took out mattresses and pillows and set them on the tiled living room floor. Those who were still awake found and took their spots on the floor.

She was near the television. They were to watch A Walk to Remember, at the request of one of her friends. She watched movies with such concentration and as she forgot her glasses, she needed to be near the screen. She took a long pillow and hugged it as she felt someone settling in beside her.

He lay on his side, facing her. He was the one who suggested the movie as that was his favorite. He was awfully close - she could feel his warm breath on her neck. Still, she paid him no mind as the movie started.

He didn't change his position all throughout the film. At one point, she could feel his arm settling comfortably against her back. She could even feel his fingers playfully tapping her back. Put she paid him no mind.

At one of the sweetest points of the movie, she heard him mumble. She wasn't quite sure of what he said, but she had a hunch. She thinks she heard the word love. Or maybe it was from the movie.

Nevertheless, she turned to him and gave him a confused look.

"What did you say?"

He sighed. "Nothing."

Though still confused, she shrugged and muttered a soft Okay. She turned her back on him and continued to watch. She could hear him let out a heavy sigh.

The movie eventually ended, and it was time to get some sleep. She agreed and turned, her body facing upward. Her left arm was at her side, while her right hugged a pillow that was covering her face.

She could feel him moving about next to her. She wasn't a heavy sleeper when in another house. But she didn't mind him. She too tends to be restless even in slumber.

A few minutes after, she felt a warm touch on her hand. She opened her eyes, but didn't move. Suddenly, she felt fingers entwining with hers.

He was holding her hand, holding it tight, as if letting it go would be a sin.

Thoughts suddenly rushed through her head. She thinks she's dreaming, and slightly pinched herself. She felt a little sting.

It was real.

Liquor couldn't be blamed - they didn't drink any at the party. Did he confuse her hand with someone else's?

Why was he holding her hand?

She then started to shift the position of her left arm, causing their hands to untangle. A few seconds after, she could feel his hand travelling the space between their bodies, seemingly looking for hers.

He found his way to her hand and held it again, gripping it tighter than before. She tried to pay him no mind and drifted to sleep.


She didn't know how long they stayed that way, but when she woke up, his hand was still there. She turned to him and whispered, "I think it's time to get up."

He groaned and mumbled something about still being sleepy.

"I think we have to go."

He seemed to agree as he squeezed her hand. Then he let go.



Four years after and she still doesn't know why he did what he did that night. They never spoke about and she never really asked. She's not sure she wants to know, and judging by how he is, she might never find out.

Superimposed

The girl—not a girl anymore, really—closed the door as the boy left the room (I’ll be back in a sec, babe.), and walked dazedly to the bed—wondering if it was all real, if she was really here, staring at a spaceship poster on the opposite wall, if she really sprayed that musky perfume—the scent he breathed in while he caressed the length of her arm as he took her jacket off and hung it on a peg behind his door. He had been pressing her for months. She had been doing her best to refuse—they say it was the proper thing, after all, she being a nice girl, well brought up and all that. But then she thought about that other boy and that other girl, as she often did, and she didn’t feel like being such a nice girl anymore—was sick of it, really.

That other boy, he used to be hers. They used to be always close—closer than brother and sister. He used to be always there for her, used to make her feel like she was never alone. Like that December night, when she was shivering in the cold—better be outside and cold than inside and miss the fireworks. He approached her, leaning against the railings of the veranda, with a smile on his face and a gift in his hand and her silly nicknames on his lips. He laid an arm on her shoulders.

Hey, you’re shivering.

I feel chilly.

So he wrapped his arms around her, wrapped her in his warmth, and they swayed gently in the stillness, to a melody only they heard, only they understood.

Then that other girl came into his life, came between them. At first, she lent him books. Then she lent him her Sunday afternoons and her laughter and gab and homemade goodies and warm brown eyes, and he repaid her in full, and more. He often murmured how beautiful that other girl’s eyes were, how fit for a poem or a song. He’d sit at his desk, sometimes for hours at a time, scribbling pretty lines for that girl’s pretty eyes. Soon he was far away from her, lost in a world where that other girl’s name was the melody he swayed to. Soon she found he was not hers, not anymore.

You two look perfect together, she had said with a perfectly bright smile. And then she too walked away, put some distance, tried to dull the pain that was always there, tried to let go of what could never be—and find something else to hold on to.

And this was where her steps had taken her. Another December night with another boy—not a boy anymore, really—and again she was shivering—but not from the cold. Suddenly, she felt rough hands on her waist and jumped with a start. She hadn’t noticed him enter the room—for the past few minutes, she hadn’t noticed anything at all in her midst. He had sprung on her, with a glint in his eye and his shirt in his hand and her name—and other words besides, words like I want you—on his lips. He stroked her shoulders.

Hey, you’re shivering.

I feel chilly.

So he wrapped his arms around her, wrapped her in his heat, and their bodies agitated to a wild rhythm his coaxing and touches induced. As his lips trailed down her ivory neck, she thought of that other boy again, and tears rolled down her ivory cheeks. She thought of his face, not this boy’s, and murmured a name, murmured it so softly only she heard, only she understood:

Kuya