snip

her hand poises, ready with the scissors
"the thing about hair, you see,
is that once you cut it off,
it's gone forever."

"yes, yes. i understand. shorter.
i want it shorter. cut away", i say
looking straight ahead and breathing in deep
"i'm sure."

*snip*
damn. i swear i marked it a bit longer.
"well?" she queries (triumph in her tone?)
"perfect," i reply.

the thing about hair, she should know, is that it grows back.

dahil summer

Love

Pablo Neruda

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

a box

a box holds my heart
whether it was of brown paper or gold lining seems
irrelevant.
a box holds my heart

a box holds my heart
and it is that which is carried
away
by hands always different in the manner of handling

my heart hides
but it is not given defense against
pain
stealing in through hinges and crevices crafted by clever men

my heart hides
but it can not stave of the hungry
cold
of an empty bed or an open door that once knew life in a different form

a box holds my heart
in the hopes that love would cease to
visit
in the guise of friendly tones and a caress of misled beginnings

sacreligious

it begins with a candle - lit and spiraling down into nonbeing
banking on the promise of rebirth upon the next schedule of creation
when the universe will move slowly and imperceptibly
to reposition itself for the reincarnation of a single essence

the candle is lit and a prayer is said
the focal point of motion has been chosen - it is man
man revolves and the spin is attributed to the earth
the true center is irrelevant, the standards have been set

the wick burns and the candle descends
the ritual has peaked and the spirit has long expired
it is anticipated - rebirth, recreation, reincarnation
but first the candle must allow itself to burn

shedding skin

a laugh and then perhaps something else
it takes a while before something else can truly be felt
after you, it took a while

i stand but maybe later there will be no more
sometimes time is all it takes before realization creeps in
there are no more corners to sink down into

we laugh and i stand -- rigid: both our actions
it will only come in the morning, the acceptance, hindsight
of both our backs turned, receding

the theme of life is really departure

It's strange how everything always seems to be disappearing just when you had finally gotten the hang of things, of people. In high school, I couldn't wait for everything to be over. I wanted it to end. I loved the people around me and the routine I'd fallen into but I knew I was over it. There was a point when I just got over all of it.

Why is it so different now? It took me five years to finish a four year course not out of the inability to accomplish the academic requirements but because of an incapacity, on my part, to want to accomplish them. I was too busy doing other things. I traded one group of friends for another and then another. I wanted to experience everything, so I did. Not attending classes for two months, feigned illnesses at the infirmiry, failing miserably, finding things I was never supposed to be good at, falling in love with people I would never have met if I had lived college life otherwise.

It's crazy. Life is crazy. Just when you get the hang of people, they leave. Just when people get the hang of me, I need to leave as well. Nothing is permanent. But sometimes you can love people so much that you do your best to make them stay on despite the fact that there's barely anything there to keep you together. Barely.

continued thought

You are distant now
and I've let go of hope - of the hope of ever touching you
- of even the hope of just seeing you and knowing,
(knowing that it is you)

You're a dream
life with you is something I create in my loneliness
a child I've given birth to in the guilty secrets of my mind
a sacred rite I submit to within the sullied remains of my heart

It is so strong
Love. Or need. Or what this longing is called outside of my dreams.
It persists across the distance.
It persists across the impossibility of being with you.

*for those who have no chance of understanding the words of the previous post*
*mostly for those who drop by blogspot*

pangarap

sa mga panaginip ko, hinahanap mo ako

sa paggising ko, nararamdaman kong hinahanap din kita
ako na ang naghahanap sa iyo

lagi tayong naghahanapan, tayong dalawa
nagtataguan

nasanay na tuloy ako sa ganito

baka pag nakita na kita, hindi ko na matandaan
kung paano huminto
kung paano itigil ang pagtatago at paghahanap

dahil malungkot ang kwentong 'to
malungkot at masakit


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
wala lang. words just come sometimes and they don't necessarily mean anything. sometimes i just write them down to remind myself that thoughts like these one entered my consciousness.

untold myths and legends

She was unaware. She could not know the power she had then. How could she? How could she with that laughter? How could she with her flushed cheeks and tenderness? She could not know. I would never have had the arrogance to tell her.

You were beautiful. How could you have known that in that instant, I was captivated, enamored, shipwrecked on the rocks guarding your siren soul, twin to nymphs and wind faeries?

It was because of that brief meeting of our eyes that life has gone on without merit. Seconds to hours. And yes, these hours will turn into years. What I would give to see her again. Even if at the side of another. Even if to see her smile in the arms of another. She has stolen my dignity and my days have been spent pining with passion for a look, for even just a second glance of love that she spun so easily into her lore.

love...never gets old...losing it doesn't either. dwelling on Stephen Crane

[Ah, God, the way your little finger moved]
Stephen Crane

Ah, God, the way your little finger moved
As you thrust a bare arm backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb a silly gilt comb
Ah, God—that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I heard thee laugh
Stephen Crane

I heard thee laugh

And in this merriment
I defined the measure of my pain;
I knew that I was alone,
Alone with love,
Poor shivering love,
And he, little sprite,
Came to watch with me,
And at midnight
We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire.