patterns and prisms of my soul

It’s my favorite, I told you

And now, I figured

it’s the birthmark on your hand

with a shy shade of roses

it’s the birthmark on your hand

the hand that was meant to make

when you were born, the universe must have said

“we need an artist, and an artist he shall be,”

the color of your marks must have been a symbol

I feel that I need to write you down.

But the profoundness of these words that I call mine

Are underrated and overrated in time

Either too unreal or too encapsulated in reality,

They are either too heavy or are already carried away by breeze

None will be able to convey the beauty within you

They are incapable of holding the shine behind your eyes

“You can’t fix something that’s not broken in the first place.”

right then, I realized the puzzles just don’t fit

whether I turn them up, turn them down

flip them over and try again

it just won’t get there

so I’ll get a cutter and try to carve

something that will leave the right space

the right time

She stood face to face with me, with a certainty so strong it was blinding. As I stare at her, the multitude of office buildings and houses far back started to fade, one by one, until all I could ever see was her chestnut colored hair and hope playing with the breeze. “Stand up and run away with me,” she whispered. 

Batangas (Canon Rebel T3i)

Parañaque (Canon Rebel T3i)

As much as I want to put your beauty into a profound piece of literature and take time in trying to find the words (words that will always sound more or less pretentious and too superficial) I think that a simple string of words will be able to do it. Not because its idea is as shallow as the people’s connotation of ‘beauty’ since the beginning of time, but rather it is as simple and as natural as what 'beauty’ is supposed to be.

I do not know why I always gravitate on writing you down. Why do I tie you endlessly in pieces of paper that get crumpled and torn?

It might be because I genuinely miss your warmth.

I have barely noticed this (I am so thankful that I did), but before you, I have never held hands with a lover who had long and slender fingers — like candles. They call it the fingers of a pianist; The fingers that can reach more than the others.

I’m a harmful human being. I’m a poison. I’m poisonous even to myself.

So don’t let me get to your lips. Don’t let me get into your veins. Don’t let me get near you.

You hear the heavy pouring of rain at 5 in the afternoon. And then it stops abruptly. Then you hear it again, like a child crying out for a mother’s love. Or a lover’s plead of another chance. It’s probably even the sudden falling out of love, getting all the things that mattered to one’s heart. And then it stops again. You wait for it to come, but after a while, there will be no traces. Even the drops of water disappear in time.