To The One I Leave Behind

Don’t bring out the curtains just yet
Or repaint the bedroom,
It’s too soon to be doing that.
Just open the windows wide,
Let the sun in during the day
And air it out at night.
But take out the plants,
Place them in the patio
For once let them see the unfiltered sun–
Let their leaves feel the unconditional breeze.
Undress the mattresses and launder the sheets,
Hang them in the backyard where they can play–
Swaying with the wind all day.
Let them soak in the smell of flowers
Until they blossom like one.

And you, do not think of me sadly
I may not be here but I will always be with you,
Dreaming of you, wondering
If you’re sleeping sweetly like you always do.
Look at the night sky when you’re lonely—as I will
We’ll count the stars together
As we usually do.
So don’t shed a tear,
Instead shower me with a thousand smiles
And a hundred kisses;
Enough to carry with me in my travels.
That way, when I think of you
I’ll think of your cheeks and your eyes—
Of wide airy spaces, of green leaves,
Of downy sheets, of soft cloth;
And how happy we will be when I return
In your arms

The Girl With The Everlasting Gaze

“I remember the last time we gathered roses in the garden, I found my wits, but truly, you lost yours.” - I forgot the author.

I

She collects stories like she collects her books, at random but with a central theme; she likes her stories to be tragic.

“Life,” she once said, “is a tragedy, whichever way you look at it.”

She treasures these stories like scars in her mind, indelible and something to be looked at again and again. Sometimes she would go through her collection and allow herself to go through every cursive sadness contained within them. She would relive the heartaches and the sea of tears that were shed as if they were her own.

“It’s so sad,” she’d say, and then indulge herself with a good cry.

II

Over time, she stopped seeing things. She would walk the streets to her office not noticing the sidewalk vendors selling cigarettes and gums, nor the frantic jostling of cars whose honking were muted by the conversations going on in her mind.

Her stories have become so entrenched in her consciousness that she can no longer distinguish where these stories end, and where her existence begins. Her eyes have taken on a fixed, glacial quality that pierces through people as if they were some kind of a mirage and she can see through them.

III

She had once dreamed of raising a family, and have little ones running all over her backyard. She was so much younger then, and possessed with a love that was so much more than love. She loved fiercely and was loved equally in return. Like everyone who has drank from the fountain of that intoxicating drink, she was, no longer hers; she was only a half person, having given the best part of herself to someone she swore she would perish for.

Her days were filled with giddy conversations and at night she dreams of sleeping forever, her beloved by her side. There was no happier girl than her. Too happy in fact that some felt it was obscene. With all the suffering in the world, some believed that no one person should have that kind of happiness.

IV

She was picking roses from her garden, choosing those yellow ones who have audaciously attempted to spread their petals after a few days of budding. She marveled at their form and gushed at how beautiful they looked.

“One more,” she thought.

Grasping her gardening shears with her right hand, she steadied the rose’s stem by holding its base with her left.

“Aww!!” She quickly withdrew her hand. A thorn has pierced through her gloves pricking her index finger. She felt a grim sense of foreboding as she removed her left glove and saw her finger bleeding profusely.

V

Somewhere in the city, her beloved stopped by a grocery store to buy strawberries. He knows how she loved strawberries. He was smiling as he paid the counter.

He was admiring the berries he bought as he stepped off the curb to cross the street to where his car was parked.

“They’re so red.” He said, before he was lifted off the ground, his body thrust up in the air, his head violently snapped back. He felt himself flying, looking at the perfectly blue sky as it slowly turned red, then purple, then black.

VI

“I’m sorry miss.”

She was still holding her gardening shears when the two policemen came to her house.

“The car came out of nowhere.”

It was all she needed to hear.

VII

When she came to, she prayed that it was all just a bad dream, but looking at all the anxious faces surrounding her, she knew that the worst had happened.

She didn’t know that such kind of pain could exist.

“It would be better if I’m torn from limb to limb, then somehow, I know that there would be a medicine I could take to lessen the pain.” She told her mother after the funeral.

“But this,” she bit her lower lip as a fresh batch of tears rolled down her cheeks, “this pain is alive, and it’s burning me from the inside.”

VIII

She went through her husband’s journals one day and found a heavily marked book of short stories lodged between them. She started reading it. Without pause. Until she finished the entire book. It was already dark outside.

“Thank you.” She said softly, as she slowly closed her eyes.

For RSL

Is it your scent that makes me dream
(of thunders and low floating feathers)
or your slender, weightless frame?

Is it when you deftly part air--
(whistling, like picking flowers)
Or when you mess with everyone's hair?

How can something so graceful,
Be something so powerful?

I steady myself with these thoughts
Chasing my breath,
While those who would defeat us
Stand in motionless awe
Watching our shuttles fly.

The Girl Who Loved Lavender

1

I once knew a girl who loved everything lavender. She used to collect hairclips and ribbons of all sorts but in only one color.

“It has to be lavender,” she would say, “or it would be pointless.”

With every purchase, she would smile like a little girl getting candy for the first time. She had lavender pens and bracelets. She even searched the net for lavender kittens. Her amused friends find her pre-occupation with the color cute.

One of her closest friends asked her one time, when she was examining a pair of lavender flip-flops, why she was so obsessed with the color.

She took a little pause before she answered, “It’s not just the color, I love the scent too.”

She then gave her friend the sweetest smile and went to the counter and bought the flip-flops.

2

Several years have passed since I’ve last seen her. I would have completely forgotten about her if it weren’t for a common friend who I bumped into the other night. He said he was on his way to lavender girl’s house, to pay his last respect. She had been long suffering from leukemia he said. She finally succumbed to the disease and died Tuesday last week. He said that before she died, lavender girl even asked her mom to dress her all in white and not to have anything lavender near her coffin. That was to be her last wish.

“It’s strange,” he said, “how towards the end she seemed to make a turnaround and didn’t want to see or smell anything lavender.”

It’s strange perhaps, but it’s been known to happen.

Leavetakings

When you leave, take me with you
Put me in your suitcase like you would your clothes;
Place me in between your apple green sweater
And your tan corduroy jeans

Just pretend I’m a piece of cloth that you have to keep
Near you, just in case
You need something to wipe your brows
When you’re done following your road
And seeing your dreams come true.

I don’t care if I get all wrinkled and creased
I would rather be rumpled, lumped with your clothes
Inside your suitcase
Than be out in the sun, free, and away from you

Every Now And Then

Every now and then I still find myself
Thinking about the things we used to share.
I still stop by that park at night, looking at fireflies,
The same fireflies we used to chase.

I’m taking a different road now,
Somewhat different from the road I hoped
I would be walking down forever
With you, holding your hand.

Do you still twirl your hair when you’re thinking,
Or talk to yourself when you walk?
Are you still unable to sleep before dawn?

Do you sometimes think about me too?

I don’t know where you are now,
But I hope you are happy
Holding another’s hand,
Even if it’s not mine.

Ang Paglisan

Isang gabi, hindi ka na makapa.
Kahit anong paglinga ang ginawa, hindi ka makita.
Sinubukan sa ilalim ng kama, hinanap sa alikabok
At sa mga agiw na naipon, wala ka dun;
Tumakbo sa banyo at humiga sa ilalim ng gripo,
Sinilip ang tubo baka sakaling sumuot at dun nagtago;
Lumabas at itinaas ang kanang manggas,
Sinipat ang pangalan mong nakatatung parang ahas.
Subalit maliban sa nunal na merong balbas,
Walang kahit bulate man lang na katumbas.
Tumingin sa salamin, umaasang nandun pa rin
Kung ang damit ay huhubarin; ang sugat--
Alaala ng umagang sinaksak ng iyong ngiting naging sibat
Itong pusong dating nakapikit at sa kaligayahan ay namulat.
Ngunit pati yun ay nawala, naglahong parang bula.

Ang aking pag-ibig na iningatan, na kung ilang taong inalagaan,
Tuluyan nang nakalimutan, pumanaw sa pagsibol ng bagong buwan.