I’m not a flower.

Flowers were created pretty. You know, they’re like camera-ready. You aim at any part, you shoot, presto! Not everything and everyone though is as fortunate as a flower. I may be made by the same hands that molded rolling hills and kneaded the sands in the coastlines of the Pacific to their finest but I am marred with imperfections from head to toe and I’m afraid there is little I can do to outrun this misfortune.

(And) I suppose this is why I have a fondness for photographers. They recognize beauty where beauty does not readily lie and they can make even the most mundane object lying on the street appear interesting, thought provoking, sensationally beautiful.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed when you look at me, your eyes would be blessed with the same keenness and acuity as that of a photographer. I pray your eyes won’t chastise and hastily damn me for the imperfections I bear but on the contrary would take the time to search through my visage and angles until you find what beauty I may have reserved.

I’m not a flower, but see that I am and I will be.

Crayons

It was simple then. The first box of crayons I owned had 8 colors, black, red, brown, green, yellow, blue, orange and violet. It was all a child needed to keep herself preoccupied in a corner with her coloring books. Flowers would be colored red, the sun, yellow, leaves were green and the tree barks were brown. Simple. I was satisfied.

Then I came to school and saw my seat mate had 16 crayons in her box. She had yellow-green. I used to color yellow over where I had green to get that. She had blue-violet too, and oh god she had pink! I sure would like to color my flowers pink! I learned then what I had wasn’t enough, I needed more.

The more I had, the more I needed. The 16 became a box of 24s, 36s, 200+. There was green, blue green, mint green, light green, lime-green, violet, blue-violet, purple, mauve, lilac, magenta, pink, rose-pink, a variety of color with names I can no longer remember-probably because I barely used them. They remained in the box, untouched, with their semi-pointed tips staring at the carton lid while only a handful had their paper coverings unwrapped and used until they are exhausted to their stubs.

Most of the time, the things we lust after are like crayons in a box. They are pretty to look at but they’re really not necessary in life.

Besides, what’s the difference between blue-violet and violet-blue?

State Of Calamity

I stood unmoving by the cliff overlooking the mighty sea, listening for footsteps treading towards me. It was the night after the storm. The sea is friendlier and the wind is blowing gently. I could see the lighthouse from the next island, glowing. “No sailor would lose his way tonight” I thought to myself. Indeed, calmness had settled in. But despite the stillness surrounding me, there is restlessness swelling inside me. It felt as if a hundred hands are beating violently against my chest, the same time a hundred others are forcing in and squeezing my heart that breathing is fast becoming painful as the seconds fade.

I had braved last night’s storm under a thin shawl for a cover. The wind howled and blew violently as lightning slashed across the darkness with the rain I thought the sea would rise over these cliffs and the massive waves would surely sweep me away. I thought I will never see another daylight. How I survived, I do not know. I was in tears when I awoke this morning, grateful.

But no more, not anymore. I have been standing here for too long waiting, I am exhausted. It has been two days since I last had a decent meal. I am at my hopes end. Not a single soul walked across these lands to lend me compassion. My bony fingers are almost blue, shaking. I will not survive another night, this I am certain.

Now, my only concern is this, what do I do with the remaining hours of my life? Should I wait for death to take my last breath? I tell you, I came upon this dreadful situation because I have been asked to wait and I think it is rather appalling that in this futile state I have to wait some more. Perhaps, with the last ounce of energy holding me upright, I should do myself a favor and hurl myself out to the sea.I find no consolation in waiting further. All sequences have been cruel to me, why would I choose to be cruel to myself as well and prolong my agony? I fear no hell will snatch my soul should I take my life away for nothing can be as hellish as the last days I spent in this seclusion. Surely, the latter seems more appealing.

Since birth, I have been wailing, some loudly that my mother needed to console me, but most in silence. I am tired. I need now my peace.

Crossings

We were at the far end of a diner, cramped in the small space; our knees were almost touching as we sat across each other. My heart raced. I could have melted but I resisted. I fought the fire in your stare with the ice in my heart. I turned my eyes away afraid they would betray me when I return your gaze. I pulled my hand when you tried to reach for it, I knew they were shaking.

I told you I’m not yet ready. Dismay splashed all over your face. Your eyes darkened. I bit my lip, controlled my tears from welling. I almost wanted to take back what I said. I wanted you, didn’t I? I lead you on didn’t I? What am I doing now, breaking your heart? Truth was I didn’t know what I wanted. I was a wreck, I was confused. But I had the sensibility to realize I am falling too fast.

You spoke of love. But love, I didn’t know what love was; aside from the pain and ache it brought me. I had shards of glass pressed against my heart from loving.

“I’ll be here waiting. Just take my hand whenever you’re ready.”

You could be my savior, or you could be another downfall. I do not know. I cannot trust myself to distinguish between the two. You spoke of love, like he did. He turned out to be lying. Now all I hear are uncertainties. I’m sorry I had to burden you with my doubts.
___________________

“Hey.” You said gently, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked up and realized the cars had stopped and the pedestrian light had turned green and you were waiting for me to cross the street.

“You okay?”

Was I okay? I looked at you and saw my reflection in your eyes. I felt myself lifted. How many times had I pushed you away? I’ve lost count. You’ve stuck by me. All this time you have loved me so patiently. You had let me breathe, grow and live. You cared genuinely and loved unselfishly. You were not my downfall, you were neither my savior for you let me save myself. Maybe you were an angel I decided. That would be more like it.

I reached out and took your hand. You looked at me surprised, questioning. I smiled at you and you understood what my heart hold and you smiled back at me. We crossed the street hand in hand. We stepped into new beginnings and I silently gave thanks for you.

Downpour

She walked to the window and looked outside waiting for the familiar silhouette. There was no one outside. She nervously twisted a lock of hair around her finger and bit her lip as she glanced at the grandfather clock quietly ticking away.

“Is he coming at all?” she asked. Only the walls stood around her. No one answered her.

Still peering through the curtains she watched as a gust of wind rustled and lifted the fallen leaves from the ground. Whirls of orange and reddish brown danced before her. A clap of thunder roared from a distance and she raised her eyes and watched the sky turn from gray to a darker, ugly shade. “It’s going to rain.” she thought. And she was right, after a few minutes, heavy downpour fell and splattered raindrops on her window sill, her heart sank into the puddles that formed on the pavement.

“He’s not coming.” she whispered sadly. But no one heard her.

She was about to turn around when he saw him crossing the street holding a black umbrella over his head. “He came, he came through the rain!” her heart sang. She ran to open the door to let him in with a big smile on her face.

“Hi!” He said shyly. “I’m sorry I’m late, I was held up at work.”

“I thought we’d go to a movie, but maybe we should wait for the rain to clear out?”

She smiled. “Okay, would you like some coffee while we wait?”

He nodded and sat on the couch. She took out two porcelain cups and the pot of freshly brewed coffee from the kitchen. She placed them on the table then poured coffee on each cup. The robust aroma filled the air awakening their senses.

They drank coffee and talked as they waited for the rain to stop. The rain never stopped pouring. Or at least they thought so.

“Where Do You Want To Be?”

With my chin resting on one hand I pointed.

“Here, in this smallest paradise. I want to be here. Here where the narrow,bluish gray roads run in circles and mazes, where a river flows like sweet red wine. I want to get lost in its labyrinth, be trapped in its crevices. I want to stand in the center and feel the ground beneath me rising and falling as it shifts.”

You took my hand and placed it on your chest. “But my love, you are here, at the very center, you are queen. You have resurrected and built this dismantled waste land into a paradise, now it exists because of you.”

“Then sweetheart, I am content. There is no other place I’d rather be.”

When It’s Over

This is how it will end, there would be silence. We would be calm. There would not be screaming and yelling. I will not accuse you and you will not blame me. There would not be glasses breaking, tension arising. There would not be cursing. I will simply stand by the window, lean against the glass and stare at the black sea with it’s massive waves crashing against the sand. I would not be looking for stars. I know they wouldn’t be there tonight. The dark sea would tell me that much.

You would pack your bags silently but quickly. I don’t know, perhaps over the last days you had began packing and there are now only a few things to add in your suitcase. When you are done, you would not even give me a sideway glance. You would walk to the door, one hand with a suitcase the other reaching for the brass knob. The silence would be broken by the door closing behind you.

I would not cry. I would not stop you. I would just stare outside, unblinking. You would not look back as you walk away.

We have spat out the last remnant of our love off our tongues. There would be nothing left to say and we would be too tired to fight. We have emotionally and mentally drained ourselves. There is nothing else to give.

Hush. Do you hear that? Silence has befallen upon us. This is our cue. I’ll take my pose by the window, you can start packing. Good bye.

beautiful?

…beautiful? you think these are beautiful? do you know that i cringe when you say that? these, that you casually call beautiful are the reflections of a wounded soul, shattered pieces of a heart, and drops of tears from my eyes. they were never beautiful. sunrise is beautiful.

…and if this is how you define beautiful, then i think i’d rather not be. i’d rather have words escape me. i’d rather not have beauty at all.

______________

janelevein:

There She Goes,

Appear in the form of a melancholic poem,
and I wish I could say how beautiful you are
and the lines you wrote,
and the words you carry,
but then a cruel irony would it be
to rejoice in the beauty of your monologous misery;
I stay silent.

an unofficial collab’

photo credit

Drafts

On my drafts is a blank page waiting to filled with words that will narrate a love story. She patiently waits, prepared to be mesmerized each time I sat before her. Each day I disappoint her, but she always find the strength to be hopeful.

Today, she looked up at me asking if I have something for her. When I nodded her eyes lit up. I settled on my seat and began punching the alphabetic keys. My heart raced as my fingers scrambled to type, afraid the idea would slip. I filled her with words, words that made her head spin, words she had never heard before. She frowned as I fed her big and fancy but empty words, combined letters that are devoid of emotions. She was appalled when I forced on her lines that went on without passion that she screamed at me to stop. “That’s not the way to write a love story!” She cried. I tried to convince her it was good, but she knew better. “Patience my dear. Don’t force it. Try again.” She said more calmly.

I could never win against her. I didn’t have a choice but to delete everything and start all over again but every paragraph lead to a dead end. Vague words were typed then deleted.

I shook my head, apologetic. I can see her dismay when I said “I’m sorry, I thought I had something, but there’s nothing to tell today.”  

We were both heart broken. I failed her again.

She heaved a sigh. “That’s okay kiddo, someday you’ll finish your love story. Hang on, you’ll get there, one day you’ll get everything right and it would be beautiful.

Citrus

“Do you want to see Manila?” He asked me. I was five then. He was ten. 

I was bewildered. My eyes rounded with wonder. “Manila? Where? How?” 

“I’ll show you.” He took the orange from the fruit basket and held it between his palms. His  hands were barely big enough to cover the rounded fruit. “Peek.” He ordered, lowering it down to me. 

I was five, curious and more than anything, gullible. I don’t know what Manila would look like on an orange rind but what the heck. He said I’d see Manila, I believed him.

Without hesitance I squinted and peered through his thumbs.

 He squeezed the darn orange, straight to my eye. The citrus vapor hit like dart hitting bull’s-eye. I was in tears from the sting. He laughed. I thought it was funny too after a while. But I never fell for the same trick again.

There are some lessons we learn fast, and there are other tricks that never seem to get old. There are tricks that we’ll fall for and be fooled over and over, no matter how old we get, no matter how it stings our eye each time and make us cry.

Intrigue

She sat on the seat across you in the train, all by herself.  You sneak a glance at her. Her hair was tied on a loose pony tail, as if she had used her slender hands to run through them instead of a comb. She have soft brown eyes that were somewhat dazed and absorbed in watching the view outside the window, buildings, sky crapers and neon lights that dotted the city. She have her earphones on and her lips would open, singing parts of the song she’s listening to herself. Occasionally those lips would curl into a half smile, a bit hesitant as if conscious of someone watching her. 

You bask in her presence. You drink her gentleness like sweet wine on your parched tongue. She have her earphones on. She is content. She does not need you to strike up a conversation. She does not want you to intrude her solitude. 

Yet her eyes looks so inviting, her  lips so alluring with those half smiles. You wonder how they would taste like, sweet melon, cherries perhaps? You are immersed. The more you sneak glances  at her the more you want to take her all in, see what she sees, hear what she hears, imagine what she thinks. Why does she smile? Does she remember someone? When she move her lips, you wish it was to call your name.

You don’t know her. She’s a stranger sitting at the seat across. If she would at least acknowledge you with a sideway glance and a lopsided grin, you’d thank the heavens and say you can die.

When she reach her destination, she would stand up from her seat, walk out the door. You would strain your neck to watch her until she is swallowed by the crowd, and the train closes its door to leave. She is gone but her presence still lingers in your mind.

Falling In Love

The stairs’ wooden floor creaked under her weight. She contemplated on wether to take another step or go back down. It was an old house, if the floor give in she would fall three floors down. 

She was in her room last night when she saw light and movement from the abandoned house’s attic window across the street. The family who owned the house moved out five years ago and no one has lived there since.

She had battled with herself for an hour wether to inspect what had caused the light or not. Gruesome images from horror movies hovered in her head like bright, warning signs.What if there is a killer hiding, waiting to attack? What if death awaits her? But her curiosity had won over her fear. Something was pulling her, luring her in. The light was dancing, it was beautiful. She can still see it in her head. Was it an innocent coincidence that the door was slightly agaped? She clasped the railings tightly as perspiration drew on her forehead and dared to take another step.