Standing outside my house at 1:48 in the morning

The sheets are cold with your absence as I crawl out from underneath them. The clock ticks 1:48AM. Sleep eludes me tonight. 

Pacing the ground purposefully, my bare feet are restless on the asphalt, toes twitching, itching, as though determined to close our distance, whether of a few inches or a hundred miles.

Trees sway in the breeze, the rustling leaves playing a melody to which we shared a dance. With shaking fingers, I clumsily light a stale cigarette I found in my pocket. Every drag, every smoky breath I exhale, is a sigh of longing. With stinging eyes, I watch the gray smoke dissolve, soft and quiet, into the night. My vision blurs.

I shrink under the vastness of the night sky, forgetting that we exist under the same moon. I shrink beneath the canopies of constellations, forgetting that the stars we gaze upon have collapsed in on themselves—they are ours now, to guide, to give light.

My finger has traced the roads on the rough palm of your hand, has memorized the topography of calluses and every whorl of its fingertips. Still, I remain lost on this sidewalk, under this streetlight where you and I shared a kiss.

Photo source: http://weheartit.com/entry/13242856

A love letter to someone I'm not actually in love with

Dear you,
Do you remember that night in your house? Please don't say no. I know you've had your share of girls, but this is me we're talking about, and you shouldn't just forget about me.

It's kind of funny, really, when you think about it: we've known each other for years. Our mundane conversations never go beyond you asking me to hook you up with girls or me telling you to take a shot of gin like a man. We never even got to know each other before you pressed me up against your kitchen counter.

Ruminations on a candle

Darkness envelops me in its impenetrability.
I light a candle and watch its light flicker,
tantalizing me with its slow, seductive dance.
I gaze intently into the bright yellow tongue of flame,
searching
for an answer that may or may not show itself.

Let me float away to the stars

Another night, another fight, and this time it's different. This time, I'm actually willing to throw a few punches of my own.
It's late by the time I slam the door behind me, yelling, bitch, leave me alone, and the wind hits my face like a slap, cold and hard and furious. There's a lump in my throat and I feel as though I were choking, a dog with a leash tied 'round its neck, struggling to break free.
The ground is stable beneath my feet, but my thoughts are swirling in a tempest. I break into a run. Run, run, past the trees, past the houses with their beautifully maintained hedges, past the shining brand-new company cars, a symbol of their corporate success, past the snooping neighbors with their windows thrown open to hear my screams better. Outrun the stars, outrun the moon. The heavens mock me with their serenity. Outrun the past, which I will always carry with me, a great heavy burden that will eventually crush me. Outrun the present, which pretends to be full of the promise of freedom but betrays me, traps me, helpless in my own life. Outrun the future that will never, ever be mine, but hers and hers alone, to show off as a trophy when they get together with their nitwit mother friends: "my daughter's a topnotcher in the architectural board exams!"
I trip and hit the ground running, feet calloused, hands thrown out to break the fall. As I sit down on the curb to examine my wounds, I blink away tears and see the scratches in my knees form a map of my life, planned out neatly, some lines intersecting, some parallel, the blood shining in the moonlight.

Photo source: http://weheartit.com/entry/15224803

Matters of consequence

Little prince, hear me,

the tippler has convinced me that happiness could be found at the bottom of a bottle

yet I remain lonesome on the planet of 1440 sunsets.

Send your fox, my little prince,

to remind me that my rose is unique in all the world

to make me see sheep through the walls of boxes.

On a street corner

I dodge cars and trucks speeding by carelessly. I reach the other side of the road. Crossing the street without you holding my hand feels like tempting Death.

Standing on this street corner, I think of you. (I always think of you, of course, but tonight particularly.) I'm waiting for a bus to take me away from here and I suddenly remember how much I miss going home with you. It's August and it's cold, the rainy season's starting—do you still remember how we kissed under a light drizzle, on this very street corner? Or how we took so long to get home because we couldn't take our eyes off each other for a second even to glance at the jeepney signboards?

Glass on Water

You’re a shy girl of sixteen. You keep your head down when you walk through the hallways, wear a shirt-and-jeans combo every day, keep to your circle of friends. In high school, when everyone’s obsessed with labels – jock, geek, loser, prom queen – you feel invisible, like glass on water, aimlessly floating adrift along the current.

You stand against your locker, just another no-name generic in your scruffy Chucks, when suddenly this boy, the most incredible, beautiful boy, gives you a smile. You look around; is that smile for you? Yes, it seems, as the boy walks up to you and asks oh-so-charmingly if maybe, just maybe, you’d like to go out with him.

You’re dumbfounded, and who can blame you? In a world of labels – wannabe, dork, freak, nerd —you don’t even exist, and yet this boy, an incredible, beautiful boy, the quintessential High School Jock-slash-Mr. Popularity, noticed you. Stuttering, you answer, yes, yes, I would love to go out with you.

You wear a dress on your date, a change of routine for you, and you blush crimson when he compliments it. You get in his car and try not to show your nerves when he starts conversing easily. You get awkward looking directly at him so you focus on the passing scenery. Sidewalks. Streetlights. Strangers.

What do you see?

Her eyes were in the back of her head.

Shame, people said, she could have been really pretty. Soft jet-black hair, rosy lips, porcelain skin. Shame, they whispered, staring at her with their eyes placed just above their noses, in the front of their bodies, the way it’s supposed to be.

How could they not stare? Her delicate, perfectly shaped features—chin, lips, nose, ears—were completely eclipsed by the bizarre absence of eyes. The space above her nose was a stretch of smooth, blank skin. Her hair was long in front but very short in the back so she could see. She liked to call this a reverse mullet, but no one laughed at this. Maybe you had to have your eyes in the back of your head to see the humor.

These midnight blues

It's over. You're gone. I'm getting used to it; bit by bit, the ache of longing in me is starting to fade, smoky and silent.
Come sunrise, I'm going to greet the world with a grin, and a charming bell of laughter.
The thing is, I'm genuinely happy. There is no need to fake smiles, to cough up giggles.
The thing is, I only come undone at night.