ang manabik sa'yo ay ang hilinging maranasan mo ang bawat magagandang bagay na naranasan ko sa bawat sandaling ako'y nag-iisa. sa tuwing may magandang nangyayari sa akin, hindi ko maiwasang gustuhin na maging para sa ating dalawa iyon, na hindi lamang para sa akin, kundi para rin sa'yo.

sa tuwing bibili ako ng paborito kong mais na may keso at condensada sa labas ng unibersidad, naiisip kitang kumakain kasama ko. gusto ko ring malasahan mo kung paano kumakalat ang pinaghalong tamis at alat, at malaman kung nasasarapan at napapangiti ka rin ba tulad ko. kapag nanonood ako ng isang pelikula, gusto kong masilayan ang tahimik mong reaksyon sa tabi ko. kapag kumakagat ako mula sa isang ube keyk, gusto kong nariyan ka, tumitikim kasama ko. kapag nakasakay ako sa bus tuwing gabi at ang gaganda ng mga musika, gusto kong katabi kita, para marinig mo rin ang mga ito.

minsan kapag pumupunta ang pamilya sa dagat, tapos natatanaw ko mag-isa ang lawak ng tubig, naiisip ko rin na kahit hindi ako marunong lumangoy, gusto kong makarating sa pinakamalalim na bahagi nito, siguro mas maganda pa nga kung umuulan, kung ang kapalit naman ay makakapagnakaw tayo ng halik sa isa't isa at tayo lamang ang makaririnig ng pinag-uusapan natin. tayong dalawa lang palayo sa lahat. at sa mga sandaling iyon, hindi na ako hihiling ng kung ano pa man.

ayos lang naman siguro, ano? kung gusto kong sa bawat mabuting nangyayari sa akin, ay nariyan ka rin. hindi ko rin talaga mapigilan. siguro ganito kapag napupuno ka ng pagmamahal at wala kang ibang gusto kundi ay ibahagi ito sa taong nais mong makasama. mahirap din kasing pigilan ang kagustuhang ibahagi sa'yo ang lahat ng mabubuting bagay na hindi ipinagkait sa akin ng mundo.

hindi ko ugaling mamilit. kahit gaano ko pa kagustong mangyari ang isang bagay, kahit gaano ko pa ipinagdarasal na sana mangyari ang ninanais ng munting puso, kung ayaw naman payagan ng panahon, ng mundo, pilit ko na lang ding lumimot. pagod na rin akong magpaalala. hindi naman siguro masamang humiling na sana may kahit isa lang, iyong hindi na kailangang may lumabas pang mga salita sa bibig ko dahil alam niya na. kahit sa simpleng pagbuka ng mga mata, paghinga nang malalim, at pagpikit sa pagtulog, may maiintindihan siyang parte ng pagiging ako. kaya naman habang tumatagal, habang wala pa, kahit hindi ako linggo-linggong nagsisimba, nakukuha kong ipaglapat ang mga palad sa isa't isa at magdasal na sana kung may darating man, iyon na lang hindi nagdadalawang-isip na magkusa, iyong hindi natatakot makiramdam dahil gusto niya, iyong sinisikap akong makita nang buo kasi kailangan niya.

17, February 2026

…nui, the divine breath of my punctured lungs, the distant sailor of my weeping heart.

i.
like a poet to its subject, the sea yearns for nui in his every inhale. every day, or if not, most of the time, nui strides the ground earlier than the dreaming sun. he colors his irises before the earth lifts its fingers to saturate itself, strolls the kitchen before the sounds of the first domestic routine in every household could begin, and claims the shore earlier than the thousand footsteps could start composing melodies for another busy day at sea.

page 90, 03/15/2002
nui, most times, i hope i know you much more than this.

ii.
some early mornings, nui would ponder and sit by the shore, his long and dangerous legs were always stretched out—and the ripples—they always try to reach on such manly toes and track-stained soles, attempting to steal the sorrows away. supported by his potent arms, nui always leaned back—never forward, perhaps to him, leaning back was a way for the world to be bigger in his eyes; and whenever he does, his broad shoulders and muscled arms flexed under the half-waked sky, his head falling back gently and the breath of life would enter through his mouth—then the heaven was yet again blessed with a portrait of a man who has never been denied by open shores all his life.

page 91, 03/16/2002
nui, oh nui...

iii.
page 92, 03/17/2002
your eyes, like a shape of an almond, when glazed by afternoon sunlight, shows the color similar to melted caramels—glowing and knowing and sweet; lashes that turn to blanket when your eyes have seen enough, and those half moons that shows when you blessed the world with your laugh—such gifts of poetry in my world, where you, nui, are the reason i am drowning in words.

nui, you are my morning lyric, my noon journal entry, and my nightly bedtime tale.

iv.
nui reeks of a whole lot of manliness, as if he were crafted with such disciplined, controlled hands.

dreamy and gorgeous, as they say, nui’s hair sits prominently—sun-kissed, bleached, and trimmed short, a contrast against the skin of his scalp. above his old-rose lips rests a thin, lined-up mustache, the kind that could tease hundreds of women’s soft cheeks. when the scorching sun finally finds its way back above, he illuminates with its light. he smells of sweat mixed with seawater, of tight ropes on old boats, of rust on engines, of exhaustion of labor—but still, he appears so bold and meticulous on a skin embellished with the most beautiful color ever seen, fitting for a man like him; even the hidden entities guiding the freshwaters would appear thirsting for salt.

page 100, 03/25/2002
you're so beautiful, nui. i almost cannot understand myself.

v.
nui, who knows how to hold things without breaking them, finds his hands full every time. the sand always finds its path along his long, gripping fingers and seeks home in his messy-lined, calloused palms. even the waters would take their precious time to rest on his skin before they evaporate and gossip on the open, salty air about how such formidable and mighty structure of a man knows no harm and only gentleness despite living in such a cruel, betraying land.

vi.
page 101, 03/26/2002
nui, i've been asked what i would feel when i see a god, and it all takes me back to when i refused to learn about the god of the sea, when i rebelled against his existence—even when i cowered at the thought of witnessing how wrathful he could be—when i chose to trace the fullness of your very name on the softness yet gripping hold of the sand that steals the coldness from my feet; when i remember you like a moisture that never dries, a sweat that do not dissipate, a droplet that rebels against gravity; because all my life, i have only ever watched you rise and sink on every open sea i named after you—and no one, nui, no one can command the sea like you do.

vii.
page 102, 03/27/2002
nui, to me, you were much greater than anything that has ever been compared to you. you were everything the sea has ever shown me in this lonely life of mine. the violent storm, yet i would dance naked in the middle of its rage, the devastation i would hold in the pit of my stomach, the outrage i would welcome the screams in my earlobes—even on its brutal form, nui, i will embrace them to understand you. and on its calmness, when the marmoris are visible to these eyes, when the salt-air marinates my hair, when the push and the pull of the waves fills the silence, when the lows and the highs of the tides predicts my comfort, the beauty, the depth—i will memorize them all nui, if it leads me to loving you more.

viii.
nui, the divine breath of my punctured lungs, the distant sailor of my weeping heart, you were meant to wet the grounds you walk on, and on your moist tracks, i was willing to fit myself—yet you were always meant for somewhere i cannot follow. these attempts to keep you—turning the sand into pages of you, trying to fist bits of you like grains that never sit still—only leave me feeling you slip through my fingers. then i look at the blue vastness before me, and my heart aches, for i am always reminded of how small my hands are, nui.

from the start, it was never enough to keep you in the only way i knew how.

ivo, the son of roses, once said that there are words we should not keep buried within us, then perhaps, when the world first welcomed him, a promise was made—this child would become an artist who understands the world, and a poet for the world to understand.

sitting on his father's shoulders, ivo, the son of roses, believed he could reach the clouds. as a wandering child seeing his world for the first time through colors, ivo learned that blue is the color of the sky, and yellow is for the sun, and red is the color of his lovely mama's dress flowing with the wind. without realizing it, it became the first painting he owned, yet ivo was too young to understand. he could not mouth the perfect words to describe the painting in motion before him. he did not yet know how to read the name from a wrapper of a biscuit, nor count the birds on talisay branches. perhaps, it was too early for ivo to know of canvases and paintbrushes, but his fate was already set—this child will grow eager to immortalize each beautiful, lively thing that makes his world.

ivo learned that mixing blue and yellow would give him the color of the rice fields he used to gaze upon before afternoon naps, and the leaves—healthy, green ones clinging to the tree where his kite, crafted by his father on one tuesday, once caught and tangled. then he learned of orange, both the color and the fruit—one morning, he tasted a sweet one, where drops of citrus rested in between his fingers, as he watched his nanay crush a handful of atsuete seeds and let a spoonful of it swim in yellow oil. "orange," his nanay told him. and there, he thought of the same color he once saw on a late afternoon in january, when they had their early supper outside, when the sun decided to kiss the top of their roof and later disappears to rest, turning the sky from purple that seems to carry so much secrets into black holding thousands of stars.

then the son of roses grew up to be a fine man. a man who honors and cares for women, like delicate flowers, like fragile porcelain, like divine beings that make this world livable and whole. and, aside from all the women from his home back in town, he met one with whom he allowed himself to be naked without removing his clothes. ivo, the son of roses, fell deeply in love.

ivo, as curious as he always was, began to explore the vastness, the possibilities and complexities, and love—from another yet also very different woman—felt strange. when his eyes first saw her smile, he could not form a sentence, like a toddler, confused and having a hard time asking for what he wanted. he knew he was smart, he excelled in matters of reason and logic, yet none of it answered why he grew frustrated from stuttering whenever she was three steps away, or even just one foot near. so then ivo, he observed, with a heart too full yet lips unprepared.

ivo later realized that life is too precious for people to keep such words to themselves, and so for the first time, he wrote—in a language that felt so sure and freeing, he did it again and again and again, each attempt trying to make sense of it all.

"i wonder, if your breath is mixed with this warmth kissing the tip of my fingers, in this page, from this very book, that made you giggle so softly, i thought i was reborn."

"when you feel so blue, and you refuse to embrace yellows, tell me about it—i will listen. i will understand. i will love you still."

ivo, the son of roses, so quiet, so calm, so loving, yet also forgetful and sentimental, learned about stories told through lights and lenses—places captured because of a troubled heart, and memories kept because of longing, bliss, and love. the device used to capture real moments became an extension of his hand—to continue reaching for a memory, even when it happened yesterday or days before that. even when all he could touch after was paper with a glossy surface, with white margins and vintage grain texture and blurs—ivo would not mind, not at all, because even when his eyes could only see stillness, in his mind, everything was alive.

and so the son of roses, wherever he might be, one thing is for sure: the promise was fulfilled. when he could not write or grab colors, he could bring life through flashes. when he runs out of batteries and ink, he could reach for colors to preserve memories even after death, and when cameras and palettes became so heavy to hold, he could pick up a pen and write and write and write.

ivo, you are one with everything you taste, everything you touch, everything you hold, and everything you remember. you became an art that knows where to look, an image that remembers when and how, and a poet that questions all the whos, the whats, and the whys. ivo, you are one with everything that makes you who you are, and believe me, the universe would not even dare argue.

summer of 2013 somewhere in mindanao—soft touches of heat from sunrise were always my 'good morning' greeting from the world. everyday, i would wait for my lolo to finish drinking his black coffee outside our house before we took our short morning walk. he always sits alone on the green monoblock chair and i can only wait and watch him through our open doors, because i cannot be near him for he always pairs his coffee with cigarettes. and when i see him standing up, cup empty, i know it's time.

i was always a curious child. my innocence led me to believe that while superheroes exist to save people and the world, i exist to ask people questions to understand the world. sometimes, my questions made my lolo laugh, and sometimes, they would crease his forehead, but either way, he always had answers to everything. i always say out loud whatever it is i have in mind and i love my lolo for responding every time and god knows i love him even more for he never once let go of my tiny hand.

i might not have realized it then, but in that moment, i knew something gentle was already growing in me, something i would spend years trying to find not knowing it had begun in my own small hands.

life was warm when i was young. life was warm when storybooks and crayola and marie biscuits were enough to make my heart jump. life was warm when all my worries were giving names to my toys. life was warm when all i waited for was for my orbeez to grow. life was warm when i first held my nokia phone, texting ma and pa i love them. life was warm when we were whole. but warmth was never consistent. growing up, no matter how hopeful i am, sometimes, the world was just never kind, never considerate, never answered my questions like how my lolo always does.

i once defined warmth as a companion of innocence and it escaped as i change, and then i see warmth as a person and the world stole him from me, and for years, i searched for warmth in every person i met, and when that wasn't enough, i learned to find it in things that didn't speak in words but made me feel like i belonged.

so when i die, i only hope i am so full of warmth and love that my soul would choose to rest. and when i die, i hope i am reminded of how wrong i was for searching for warmth for so long when all this time i was warmth myself.

it all started with me whispering the first line of your piece. the words easily found themselves gliding through my tongue, mixing with my saliva, thick and sweet, like honey and something else i find hard to name. i often find myself reading your words in secret, as if they were forbidden to be spoken aloud. i made sure each word was felt and seen and savored—never skipping a syllable, never leaving your metaphors unexplored. i read them with your voice in my head and i read them slowly, yet despite the lingering pace, i always end up out of breath.

some pieces written by others just brushed past my skin, but when my brain processed yours, it peeled mine till i am raw for the world to see. you made me crave for sensations i couldn't possess unless you offered yourself and your luscious mind to me.

when you wrote a piece about me, did you grip your pen tight? did your paper crumple? were you imagining me, lying on your bed, soaked in my own desire? leaning against your wall, yearning for your touch? crawled up in your sheets, starved from your taste?

i wondered if you knew that your words aroused me more than the sight of naked men ever could. your words stirred images in my head until i couldn't separate fantasy from the truth. your words pounded into me so deeply, i found myself clenching my thighs just to feel something more.

i want you to know that in my head, you are like a god of arousal and insanity, a god to no one but only to me, a god existing for me to call one. you are an art so powerful and seductive you don't need to stand in the same room as me for your words alone are enough to send me spiraling, to push me beyond the edges of myself, muffling moans into my pillow as my saliva and your name mix on my tongue like it is the combination i was meant to drink to suffice this thirst.

please write to me again—grab your pen, fill your head with me, show me how you craved me, how you always search for something that reminds you of my taste, my smell, and my sound when i'm falling apart for you. make everything about me. please write to me like how you never stop yearning. please write to me like how you said i am the only language your pulse could ever remember.

when i first saw her, i was 14, and she was the english club president. and i can never forget the mole on the upper left of her lips—it's like it had its own life too. it rose when she was happy, it hopped when she spoke to her people, and it stayed still when she was serious. if the world ever asked me to place my lips on something i could never stop talking about in this lifetime, her mole would be the first thing i would kiss.

in my young and hopeful mind, i knew she would be someone i would want to keep looking at and never get tired. her skin always looked so fair and soft. her bangs were always messy, but her smile was as bright as the color yellow freshly picked lemons. she was lovely too, like a cluster of bougainvillea swaying under a gentle spring day. she giggles like a sweet bird singing silly melodies, reminding the world it's another day to be beautiful again. and stealing glances at her felt like watching a montage of moments you would offer anything to be included. she was all i could think about in every break i had in class, and she still lingers in my mind now that i've grown into a woman who finally admitted that she have liked her for a long time.

she makes films now. she directs stories and captures emotions every human wants to feel just to keep up with the world. whenever i see her name in the film credits that have won multiple awards, i can't help but clutch my chest, and when i do, i know it's not just in my head, because even my heart rejoices with her too. i saw her picture once in the news, and i was reminded again of how i have admired her since the moment i waited for her to meet my eyes back in the english club.

and me, i write proses. i pour sentence after sentence about how much i ache to be near her, to be warmed by her presence, to see her smile again, to hear her laugh through my ear pressed against her chest. metaphor after metaphor for how beautiful she is, and how she deserves to be written beautifully too. i have been writing for a long time, and no matter how hard i try to write about other things, my head, my heart, my words, my fingers—they all circle back to her.

her.

only her.

maybe in another life, we would be two different artists speaking the same language of love—the kind that i can call our own. our patient love. our tender romance. she frames and captures for us to remember, and i write and bleed for us to exist even in death.

no one can easily arouse me. many have tried. a lot of them have begged, but i remained untouched; not because i am scared, oh god knows how much i longed to be touched with such intimacy—they just couldn't make me lose my sanity the same way my own nakedness does.

i have lived in this body long enough to know what it holds. i know how worthy my curves are against the palm of anyone's hands, how quickly they would lose their mind under the weight of me, and how intimate it becomes when my throat calls out their name. i know my body better than anyone who dares to assume they know what i want, for i worship my body as a temple of power and beauty and i see myself as a woman who overwhelms anyone with the desire to crawl towards my flesh.

no one can easily get me. i won't fall for forced intimacy. i won't welcome words from the insecure. i won't sway for false desire. i crave compassion, directness, and rawness. i want a touch that lingers for a century, a glance of love and longing that stays and crawls, the kind that gives me no worries but comfort, a soft grip that leaves a mark i would willingly kiss, and an embrace that makes me feel alive even when i can no longer remember my name.

so believe me when i say this is not me holding back my affection or concealing my vulnerability, for i am only protecting precious parts of me that took me long enough to say they deserve to be cared for with certainty and utmost tenderness. so when the time comes that i choose to surrender, i have finally chosen to burn without fear, and to offer myself bare.

no one can easily own me, that is why i am worth the ache and every breath.

if anything is to kill me, let it be your unconditional love for me. to love me even when i refuse to kneel and pray for forgiveness. to love me even when i smell like a carcass. to love me even when i feel too rough to touch, too broken to rise, too lost to give hope. and i'll promise to only live for you—to breathe life for you, to open my eyes only for you, and to endure this life a little longer for you. and if i must suffer, then let it be from too much happiness coming from you—from your willingness to surrender to me, to kneel before me, to yearn and crave for me every quiet second of your life. when the world denies me tenderness like how it does every time, your love will be the only precious thing i can proudly press against its cruelty, screaming that i have been loved, and that i deserve to be loved. and if i were to die, then let every rotting part of me spread and linger in the corners of your very mouth. and if i were to be sucked dry, then let every fluid of mine smear across your lips. and if i were to be known, then let it be through you. through the way you had me written all over your face. through the way you wear my sin like it's your own skin—for your existence will be the only proof that i have lived. that i was once alive. that i am alive now. that i will remain alive not in the afterlife but within you.

my mind is a canvas where i paint us with the kind of strokes no chapel could bear. with your existence, i could build a museum in this luscious mind crowded with portraits of you, more captivating than the sun that lured icarus and more sacred than michelangelo's ceiling. paints? for certain, they'll never run dry. i could use the sweat gliding down your temples, the honey dripping from the corner of your lips, and the blood bursting when your name tears itself out of my mouth; this shall be enough to remind you that when a poet falls in love with you, the world learns a new shade of beauty and seduction.

when the canvas fits us two, the masterpieces change between picnics on warm grass to gasping breaths tangled in sheets. fingers chasing the forbidden, flesh spelling verses against our skin, and secret thrills awaiting from our fingertips—aching. ecstatic. unsure. this is where the beauty of secrecy, of wondering, and imagining comes alive. me and you, in my head, only i know what we've done.

you see, you can use my eyes to see your reflection, but you cannot expect me to see you the way you see yourself. my eyes are dangerous when they join forces with my hunger. god shall forgive me for such thoughts, but he did not sculpt me to be tamed.

i want to know what flashes behind your eyes when you hear my name, when you see me, when we exchange that sacred language only us could understand, and when we are just inches away from burning—if you ever wonder what goes through mine, just ask and i will tell you everything. i will let the words drip from this mouth that aches to taste, to savor, and to crash against yours.

it was mid-afternoon in july. the sky was a gentle mix of white and soft blue, and the soil beneath my hand was warmly kissed by the sun. i was planting ginger and turmeric, sitting on a small bangkito, listening to barangay love stories, wearing the hat i bought from the ukay back in town. the cacao trees were flowering. the durians were peeking. manong albert, walking barefoot with his carabao, kibol, went back and forth gathering coconuts from the ground, exchanging smiles with me each time they passed. i was drenched in sweat. i was tired. but i was at peace.

it was three o'clock on the same day when auntie mel called for snacks. the smell of champorado mixed with coco sugar hugged the air inside the kitchen. bruce lee, the dog of the farm owner i worked for, was on his belly, playing with the rug. everything was gentle. the day was slow but comforting. everything was going well. and everyone seemed to be doing better... except for me, i guess, for the quiet ache that lingered somewhere between my chest and my throat still disturbs me from time to time.

nothing is well when you long for someone you cannot call to come back. nothing is well when your heart shouts a name it knows will never be heard. nothing is well, even if the sun brightens everything, when inside your head, you are mourning something you can't even name. nothing is well, even if everything you touch is warm, when your fingertips turn cold the moment you touch the book you were so excited to read, for they once said it brought them comfort and you can't help but wish it could do the same for you.

it was the month of july when i bought the book you once spoke to me so tenderly about. i touched it once, grazed my fingers on the cover, traced the title like i was tracing your name i won't be able to forget, then set it down, and never reached for it again.

I wrote this months ago while thinking of someone I admired; he was nowhere to be found now, and thinking about our interactions before, how I wish I was able to keep some of them so I won't just rely on my memory. Oh, Rai, I still have the book, and I haven't read it yet. Wherever you are, I hope you are well. ♡

and that moment when our eyes first met, and grins curled onto our lips, i knew we shouldn't be seen alone together. and i know she knows what i mean.

"mama, i like girls." i was eight when i first saw what fear really looked like through my mama's face. she stopped chewing her food and started blaming my papa for everything. that was the first time i didn't flinch as they fought in front of me. i wasn't even nervous or bothered by it. i was rather enjoying my food, excited because that night, i planned to sneak into my neighbor's house again. to see her. to kiss her cheeks. and to bring the cd i stole from my mama's drawer and watch another gore flick with her as we held hands under her blanket.

growing up, i only ever focused on creating chances for her to be near me. i left my blouse unbuttoned so she could fix it for me. kept my hair untied so she could curl her fingers in it. smudged my lipstick so she can lick it off when we were alone. and so many things just so i can feel her breath near me.

one night, after we shared a hot kiss behind their house, she flooded my mind while i was having my dinner. she made me think of sucking her fingers. licking the line of her back. kissing the marks on her belly. scraping my teeth on her flesh, and praying she was the one on my plate instead of the meat from my mama's hot bulalo, oh, how i wished it was her bone marrow i was sucking clean and not this. how i wished to show her my love so raw it went beyond our skin, beyond what others believe is normal.

"you're so beautiful, i want to eat you," i whispered like a dying girl with her last words. breathless. craving. holding on. she sat and i laid my head on her thigh. it was so soft, i could sleep for eternity. she played with my hair. her pale skin, her long and thick lashes, her curly hair, her pink lips—all crafted by hungry hands. all delicious. she just smiled, bit her lip, and pressed her nails into my chest, spelling her name. oh, god, i have never felt so alive. then, without a thought, i rolled onto my stomach and started kissing her thigh. it was mellow and gentle and slow. then it turned sloppy and wet and with tongue. her fingers caressed my ear, my nape, every part she could reach. and my skin crawled. my hair stood. and again, i have never felt so fucking alive.

"consume me whole," she whispered, and i fucking nodded. and i knew then that what we have was never meant to be clean, it was meant to rot and rise and rot again. love became another word for consumption in our language. we made an altar of our bodies, telling our vows with saliva and blood shared between mouths. no one would find us in white dresses, for we swore to only wear nothing, just naked and in love before all gods. we would kiss until the last scrap of our flesh surrendered, standing bone to bone before anyone who dared to watch. for we both know we did not promise eternity, we promised to decay with our hearts between our teeth.

August 18, 2025. This is a piece I wrote dedicated to my ever so sweer girl, Amatereiuo. 🤎

the first time she kneeled with me, we were not praying. we were plucking daisies and baby's breath in summer, and i never needed confirmation to know that i had been hers since.

we were fifteen when our cheeks caught flushed from pulling weeds, blueberry-flavored lollipops between our lips, handed to us by aling auring—our neighbor we secretly stole manzanitas from, sweet beams touched by sunlight, skirts spattered with mud, and soil beneath our clean fingernails; all were once our shared communions—the kinds that only soft girls and gentle sunday afternoons would understand.

we were twenty when the world seemed so against us. against our love. our identity. our shared kiss at night. but we still knelt together—not to pray, but to surrender to each other. in our room, she knelt and i did the same. our foreheads touched and we were better once again. when i broke down in the middle of the road, she embraced me tight, saying she would always be with me, and that a cheeseburger would fix our temporary problems. we danced beneath the rain with our socks paired like soulmates and when she knelt down to tie her shoelace, i leaned down too, to kiss her forehead, tasting the salt of everything we've been through. and again, i never needed any confirmation to tell me that leaving everything behind for her was the right choice.

and now we are way older. we shared a home. we had a job. we no longer pull weeds, nor sweep the falling leaves to earn money enough to buy our lunch. we no longer sell lemon juices with extra sugar nor try to negotiate with the vendors when we buy vegetables and fruits from our grocery list because we were tight on budget. we no longer care about anything but our breaths. our bodies healthy. our hearts beating as one. and our souls tied.

when i kneel, she kneels with me. kneeling not to worship, but to gather our dirty clothes. to clean each other's feet on our small basin. to fold our laundry. to kiss each other's legs. to braid each other's hair on the floor. to share sweet fruit slices. kneeling not to preach, not to pray, but to witness, to love, to level, to be closer. to show the world that we are each other's evening prayer. to witness that our love was never rooted in madness, melancholia, or hatred like the world always pushed us to believe, but rather in earthly devotion and soft, domestic moments. that there is love in mundane things. that affection is tucked inside our tight jean pockets, and there are i love you's in every syncing breath we share in silence during chores done on our knees.

and after everything, we still believe that the universe will give us all the love we need, for we are good people, and good people deserve softness. so when the world forgets to be kind again, we will return to the floor. because love, fondness, clarity, in their truest forms, were always things we learned while we were on our knees.

This piece is dedicated to my sweet and beautiful friend agnes, I missed her so much. Written on August 6, 2025. 🪷

if names didn't exist, i dont think it would bother me even just a little, for in my world, she doesn't need a name to be known by me.

like patroclus to achilles, i would know her blind. by the way the air shifts when she arrives, by how the feeling of her always makes me forget how to breathe. i would know her from the way she pulls me in without even trying, and how the slight closeness between us could bring me to the brink of death. i would know her by how she makes my thighs clench with the ache of wanting to be near her, how deeply i crave for her to feast on me.

if names didn't exist, then we would have no identity. no titles. no boundaries. nothing at all. and i would become nothing but whatever longing turns me into. i dont need a name for i am whoever she wants me to be. it is her presence that defines me. it is her laugh that describes me. it is her gaze that sees through me. it is her touch that gives meaning to whatever i am before her.

i am beyond grateful to be alive in the same world, at the same time as her. but the longer i exist near her, the more it hurts for wanting to have so much and having so little. oh, the heavens knew how i want to hold her hand just to see if my fingers fit between the spaces of hers. i want her not just to kiss me, but bite and suck my tongue, to wound and chew my lips, to lick me open, to taste my blood that's always been calling out to her.

i could never mistake her entirety, for i always recognize the ache that crawls in me when she's around, and how she makes me want to submit to her and offer everything i have that she wants. everything that she needs. oh, our savior, hear me, there is only one thing i want and that is to be one with her.

i am nothing without a name but i am everything with her within my reach. if identity disappeared, if names are erased, then maybe, just maybe, she could finally have all of me. she only has to say the word and i will run to her. to let her feast on me. to let her consume me. to let her swallow me bit by bit. to let her take her time chewing. to let myself become one with her.

she can keep my breath behind her teeth. let my flesh rot inside her body. she can spit out my morals and swallow what's left. if names didn't exist, i would have simply let her eat me. let her take my soul. my shadow. my pulse. i wouldn't scream in pain. i wouldn't tell a soul.

if names didn't exist, i would be lost, but i will let her be the void i would willingly enter. i would offer myself bare. no shame. no guilt. just love. just surrendering. let her become my death and everything after.

if names didn't exist, then please, allow me to let her be the last thing to ever define me.

i would have mocked devotion if i hadn't seen the way you smile like sin, daring heaven to try and burn you.

saint of candlelit souls, i beg of you, drink from my altar blood and feel my sacred ache. breathe in my lonely scent and smile at my winter soul. be with me. until i no longer know my name. until my body forgets how to stand and only remembers how to crawl.

the guardians know i am always behind you. on my feet. when you walk, i follow the tracks your feet have touched. my orbs, they locked on your blood-curdling ones. nails kissing the palm of my hand, watching your veil dance along the floor—your hair that i ache to feel. lips pulled inward every time i catch a glimpse of the side of your holy face. so beautiful. so cold. so divine. so untouchable. like a newly baptized rosary. like a polished chalice. like a goddess of all cross-bearers who have kissed velvet lips in the afterlife and returned to kiss the ground you step on.

i never once saw you back down. you never knelt before anyone. you never shed a tear for any inconvenience. you never tolerate insanity just because it wore the disguise of ignorance, or insensitivity masked as confusion, and you showed them all to me, without ever saying a word. you were a scripture my eyes were born to read. you showed no remorse. no regrets. only that you beamed sweetly, like you never knew sin as sin but sin as seen. and when i scratch the skin behind my ear, too rough, to hard, just to feel again the echo of your voice, my blood sets fire. i levitate with a grin. my soul receives the warmth it needs. when you spoke my name, when you ordered me to do something. i felt important. i felt connected to you.

this mind cannot recall the last time i preached. the last time i sang with my eyes closed. but when you walked in, when your voice echoed through the heart of the cathedral, something inside me awakened. and suddenly i wanted to scream the lyrics i never knew my heart had written, then i sang with my eyes open and memories of you.

sainth of candlelit souls, you are not a god. but i need you to know, i have never wanted to kneel so much in my life.

written for my dearest friend sainth, the only ever beautiful and talented sainth in my life. dedicated this piece to her on july 22, 2025.

posies above my ears and the drips of honey between my lips seem to fit the gracious madness of summer as i tiptoe along the glowing footprints of every heavenly romantic pen keeper. perhaps the long-lost deities of literature once whispered through my soul, for me to dwell not as a plain walking statue, but as a living work of art.

thriving in the world of uncertainties, i still choose to wander and search for every remaining ink left by the verse kissers and every lingering color left by the paint swallowers, for they are the precious treasures of those who choose to breathe the comfort scent of every bewildering oeuvre. it is our job to exhibit the beauty of their legacy—the wonders who exist in the name of art.

maybe monet's palms once tried to touch my hair, and shakespeare's heart once beat beside my ear, for their crafts shaped my whole entity under their care. so watch me as i sway my hips amidst the woods—with traces of ballpoint on my cheeks and a paint-stained dress. look at me and witness a dancing piece of written words and painted hues.

oh, my summer child, the sun's so comfortable letting you bring its rays with you that wherever you go, the world just lights up. i knew the ground gently welcomed your feet when you ran on it with laughter escaping your lips as you chased a butterfly. and i knew the bees were happy when they saw you licking honey from the edge of your mouth while gripping a piece of toasted bread between your tiny fingers.

i bet you once envisioned a world you wanted to visit by peeking into the small circle you formed with the tip of your thumb and index finger, and i bet it was a lovely world—a bright and warm one where nightmares wouldn't even dare invade. i know the breeze favors every hairstyle you wear, whether it's a ponytail or a pair of braids, for it always strokes them gently, making sure you won't feel any hurt, for your smile is so important it's enough to make the world feel complete.

yet, as you grew older, i knew it wasn't the same as before. i knew sometimes it was cruel, disappointing, and full of sadness. and i knew sometimes you blamed yourself for things, but i also knew the world never blamed you for anything.

you are loved, and you deserve a spot to dance on in this chaotic world. the warmth, the stardust, the lush—all of them favor you, because you gave them a home inside your heart, and they shall grow within you. even though it's tough sometimes, the words that come out of your mouth still are like flavors of comfort and the gentle citrus of love. and your lashes—i know the universe sprinkled some glitter on them, and your eyes, they even twinkle when your heart is happy, and your smile, your presence—both feels like the melody from the piano instrumental of rachel platten’s "better place".

oh, my summer child, you make me happy when you're happy, and worried when you're sad. so when you feel alone, just know that i will cross the seas to be with you, hoping that your laughter echo louder than the angry thunders, and the wind carry a love that never stops guiding where you belong.

oh, my summer child. i love you so much that when i am near you, my heart warms too.

this was written for my very special friend on 4th of July, 2025. her name is ‘cherry’, we call her ‘cherry pie,’ and she's beautiful, and she brings smiles to the world. ☀️🍒

poetry holds an invisible image that's crafted by a poet whose heart is full of sketches and paints, whilst painting hides wonderful poetry that's made by a painter whose eyes are full of words and untold tales.

for in every brushstroke that an eye could glimpse over the canvas are hidden letters found dancing along with the paint from the tip of a paintbrush. and in every color scooped from a circular palette exhibits emotions and expressions of a painter who speaks through artistry deep within their soul.

words, rhymes, and metaphors written on crumpled papers conceal parades of portraits and creations that show the beauty of romance, nature, bliss, madness, acceptance, and even heartbreaks and melancholia. and in every bottle of ink and paper pads resting above the table await to be used for plenty of untold stories and rhythmic literature stored in a poet's heart, where through poetry, they utter tales.

when someone reads poetry and their soul drowns in it, their mind flashes pictures and scenery wherein they could feel the exact sensation as if they were there. as well as when someone sees a painting, their mind assembles stories as beautiful as poetry as they interpret a masterpiece full of unsaid sentiments and wild thoughts.

for poetry is destined to be felt with painted hearts, and paintings are fated to be seen with poetic eyes.

one time, the homing pigeons told me that there's another newborn darling birthed by the love between the sun and the ocean. perhaps, that's why the sound of the sea became a lullaby for the restless hearts and the grains of sand softened—gentle enough for the scarred ankles of every wounded child to rest upon.

each morning, the sunrise matches your smile—teeth like castles, tongue like a ripple from the shore, cavities like dancing gummy bears, and gums like poseidon's domain. and when the sun decides to kiss the ocean, the sunset resembles your orbs, the wind dances with your soul, and the ambience embraces your wonderful physique—for the heart of the ocean is located inside your ribcage.

sweetheart, you are a walking body of pristine water, a sweet song echoing the melody of fragile corals and pebbles, an angel of the kind and innocent creatures, the ethereal keeper of love and nature, the guardian of soft skies and delicate clouds, and the living proof that poetry is not lifeless.

the thing about making yourself believe what your mind says is that it works—until it doesn't. it's a trap clothed in fake persuasion, a story your mind wrote to cradle you in comfort, in delusion, just so you wouldn't have to face the truth smiling and staring back at you.

you are a coward. i know you made a softer version of me because the real one was too much to hold. you called me intense and difficult as if it were a flaw. your ego couldn't handle the insecurities that emerged when we were together, so you tried to drag me down just to make yourself feel taller. you never had the courage to face the version of me that loved you too much, too loudly, too proud, and too completely, so you rewrote the ending on your terms and called it closure, while i labeled it nonsense.

committing to me is both a bliss and a curse. you knew it, for i engraved it into your mind, but you chose to scratch your brain and dirty your nails trying to forget.

you thought you could walk away from the fire and expect to smell clean. you thought you could touch something that burns and expect your skin to forget. you thought you could lie and escape being haunted by the truth. but that will never be the case when you choose to be with me.

when she touches you, i know it's me you'll feel first. when she kisses you, i know it's my lips you picture in that hollow, bean-sized brain of yours. i spat in your bloodstream and etched my moans into your eardrums. i scratched my name into the lining of your lungs so every time you breathe, every time you try to say my name, your voice will break. i screamed myself into your spine so that no matter which side you lie on, it will never be comfortable. i left stains in every corner of your world, so no matter where you look, you'll be reminded of how foolish you were to lose a woman who loved you.

so even if you bury me, my bones will sing. even if you set me on fire, my ashes will dance. even if you curse me, i will still linger. because when i loved you, i did it too much. too deep that it becomes an insult to allow myself to become just a memory. i made room for you in my silence, in my madness, in my bliss, in my devotion, so don't expect me to be just a fleeting moment. i will never be a detour, for i am the road itself.

so don't mistake my absence for forgetting, for i took my worth with me. i am your reminder. your warning. your scar you'll never learn to live with.