At The End Of The Day

This want to hold you in my mind, I — Isn’t that how memories work? You take it in, and it sort of floats around in your head.  Aside from it being instant entertainment, it allows you to revisit it constantly.  But again, you were made to be forgotten.  I try to hold onto it — rewind to the day you held me for seconds.  It was the first and the last, I’m afraid.

But as the night turns to day again, I am reminded of this: that your eyes are hollow, your smile is preserved in photographs, and the voice that rumbled in my head so ominously can barely resonate.  Not even an echo.  Hello? I can only describe the way my name rolled off your tongue so smoothly.

As I write you down, even I know that at the end of it all, these are just words — and we are all stories.  Stories end, unfortunately, and even if I wish it otherwise, I can no longer write about empty air.

I wish I could.
I wish I could.


On Taking That Chance

I don’t know how I jumped over the edge that one time before, and gave all that I could to a dead end. Sometimes the living can hope for a life in the heart of the ones who left us. Not the ones in tombs, but the ones who choose to bury themselves alive, to hide from the sins they have yet to confess.

I wonder where that rush of adrenaline had gone, the one I had whenever I waited for him to walk with me to class. “Yeah, I can walk with you. I have time.” No one can hold time in their hands, they don’t have the power to. But they can choose to bend it for the ones they care for — is what realized. He became that very person who gave me his time to the one who begged for more of it.

(Wealth is not only measured by money, but how much you can spend on other aspects that need to be afforded as well.)

‘What if’ is the principle I basically built my life on. Even if the universe owes me nothing, I still bank on it handing in a few favors. After all, I had been nothing but kind to it except for a few tricks to bend its string of fate. I take chances on it as much as possible — not in all aspects, but with people most especially. I took steps forward and shone myself under the light instead of behind it. I could never afford to lose someone because once you did, to seek is a whole other journey I prefer not to undergo.

It’s not that I’m scared all over again, but it’s the gamble behind it. This new person is someone I’d like to bet on a little bit more, and in the process I would not like to lose. We may have a fence between us but I wouldn’t want to jump over it and find myself falling alone. I can trip over a few words, but never fall farther, deeper. I dove once and I drowned, and I wouldn’t want to lose my breath so fast again.

Never mind that I long to recall him like a story. Never mind that his voice is a song I long to find. Never mind that I wish we found ourselves on the same cobblestone steps again. It’s not good to yearn so much, to love with all your heart. Losing is normal if not forgivable, but giving all your guns up is a whole other story and I wish to hold on to that beginning rather than a terrible ever after.

It Ends At The Start

If I could write a story about us, I would start at the beginning. And that beginning ends there, just there. Some people call it a cliffhanger, I call it a missed opportunity.

The first time I saw you, you didn’t see me. After all, before you knew my name, I was a ghost to you when you weren’t one to me. But knowing a name isn’t the same as knowing the face, the body, and the mind. Who are you? How are you? What are you?

“Hi,” you took my hand quickly, in our effort to be formal. “Hi,” I whispered back, your voice rumbling at the back of my mind. I fall behind as you strode forward, the sun at your back.  I wasn’t shaken at first, maybe because you didn’t scare me in the way others usually do. You were distant all on your own, but as the seconds turned to minutes, even the coldest person bathed by the sun turns warm. And even if we didn’t see eye to eye the first time, I knew that you were something. Not just something, were.

“How is this city treating you?” I piped up, as I felt that familiar feeling of fright in me. Your eyes flickered in my direction. “It’s all right, but it’s not the dream most people believed it to be.”  I don’t know what led me to believe that you were even a possibility, even if I know you usually have to treat every person as an opportunity to connect. But even some beliefs are proven strong by faith, and I’m glad to know that later on, we would find common ground in some aspects at least. We existed in the same space, but not necessarily together. There was a slight fence between us, and no one reached a hand out until I did. And you took it with openness right away, your stories spilled onto the table and flowed towards me, like your words yearned to come out. But that was your personality, that was who you are. You flowed, you flowed right into me.

But I wish we didn’t stop with the stories, because I had questions on my own that I wanted answered. “What’s your favorite television program?” “Do you read?” “If you were the last man on earth, what brand of beer would you want to keep you company in your solitude?” Even if I didn’t ask, your eyes crinkled with a refreshing innocence that doubled as “been there, done that” and as I watched you color your world for me from the sidelines, I knew that maybe this could be. This could be– I don’t know, a question worth asking? Someone worth?

“So, yeah, nice meeting you.” You said, as you took a stride forward and your arm took me in. I fell into your ten-second embrace as I wrung my arm around your neck. “Good luck with everything.” I rubbed your back a little, like I wanted a wish. A wish for you to stay longer, a wish for you to ask me to stay.

I knew that the story was already written. Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, as Shakespeare said, but we weren’t anything. We just met, and the journey already reached its end.

I wish I knew it was the epilogue right there, so I knew how to say goodbye. But some endings were meant to be put there. And now as I stare into the blackness that is the ceiling of my room, I try to remember your crinkling eyes, your deep, throaty laugh, and the sound of your voice (or admittedly, the way your eyes would briefly flicker towards me), but instead I only remember you in stills and in faces I have associated similarity with. It was as if you were a memory made to be forgotten.