You cannot exhume
someone from the
dead and dress them
with fancy clothes like
they used to. Let them be
buried underground. Let
them stay hidden from
the superficial light of
The more days we spend
playing these phony games
of pretending, the more their
names burn the forests on
The art of letting go is not
the same as the art of
The memories they left in
our minds will forever stay
as memories. That’s why
if we continue on making
artificial memories out of these,
we don’t just make the lame
imitations of the originals but
we also make fools out
We double the pain by holding
on to someone that’s been
begging us to let them go. Their
souls are desperate for their
flight, and if you’d just
listen to the silence of the night
you may find there the melancholic
singing of the birds you caged in your
It all burns down to this:
your eyes searches for
tomorrows in my mouth
and our names etched on
the creases of our palms
scorch their way to
One way or another, there
will be fault lines cracking in
our voices. By that time, our
promises won’t sound like the
way they used to. We will
forget the faces of the people
we said we’d bleed ourselves
We won’t be looking at the
spaces between our arms
after the storm instead we’ll
look up to the sky and find there
the very same emptiness
that upheaves our chests
It all burns down to this:
our story becomes a part of those
stories forgotten by generation
and all this will be legends and
you and I will be just happy
anonymous people in photographs
It all burns down to this.
I know, I never did see this
With eyes wide shut, you shall
breathe in the universe illuminating
around you. Let the burning stardust
and collapsing nebulae run through
your nostrils and permeate your lungs.
There’s more life outside the horizons
you’re trapped in.
Open your arms wide.
Reach for the northern lights.
And let your faith take you
where you long to be.
Only by then, can you open
your eyes and witness
the beauty you’ve never seen,
never felt, never touched before.
You got out of bed in the middle of the night and when I asked you where you were going, you said you’re going to look for the cure. And it started all over again. You said, you must find that cure to fix what’s been broken inside of us. I kept on insisting, there’s nothing to be repaired in the first place. But you still left and chased the faint moonlight.
It’s Saturday night and you’re with the man
you chose to love instead. The phone rings.
Your hand trembles uneasily.
There’s silence rumbling on the other line.
And your heart, with every second of drowning
quiet, beats the letters of my name.
Pure and unadulterated white static echoes.
Your breath becomes heavy as your empty
lungs upheave to your shoulders.
This is the moment when your heart
spells my name with fluency as if
you’ve taught it for the past three years
of your glory days.
This is when you will realize that an affair like
the one that we had, once abandoned can
never be claimed again. That lips like mine
once kissed can never be unloved.
You can deny the truth that there are body bags lying
beneath the floor you’re standing on but you can never
forget the massacre of the previous versions
of ourselves. Though I know for a fact that I can never
force you to take these poems of mine with you in
your grave, still I’ll try to convince you.
Between the creases
on your palms are my promises.
Between the lines
of my poems are the things I wished I could’ve told you.
Between you and I
is a story begging to be written.
Know that when I write I bleed my thoughts through words.
And when I bleed, I shed every drop for you.
Know that I usually stutter when I talk to people,
but when I told you my name when you asked of it, I didn’t.
There wasn’t even a little sign of earthquake in my voice
whenever I tell you my love.
Know that when I wrote a poem about your eyes,
I didn’t mean they were blue when I compared them
to the Pacific Ocean. What I meant was whenever you
look into me, I always feel like drowning.
Once, on an afternoon of despair,
I wrote a love letter to death.
It was during those times when
the air was thick enough to
suffocate your soul. My eyes
bled apologies out of my rusting
tear ducts as the sun burned
my already burnt skin. It was during
one afternoon, when my tear-stained
hand felt the urge to write a letter on my
“Dear death,” I wrote,
“take this weary soul of mine
with you. Take it where it longs
And with every fragile piece of me,
I sealed the letter in an envelope
of sighs. Sigh for yesterday. Sigh for
today. And two sighs for tomorrow.
Three years passed,
and Death’s reply came into
me in a human form.
“Not yet,” Death wrote “not yet
for you still have a life to share.
And this letter is one of the
reasons why you should stay there a
The space between her arms is where
your soul longs to be.”
I once was a dreamer,
a man with childlike
spectacle in his eyes
burning with hope,
with sonorous wonder
for the unknown
I once was a wanderer
of the palpable potential
of humanity, of the
infinite extent of the
Across the seas are lands
yet to be discovered. A million
light years away from us, are stars
yet to be marveled at.
But hope when unfulfilled ceases
to scorch and burns out
little by little:
The dreamer dies and is buried
beneath his dreams.
The wanderer is stuck
in a cruel quicksand.
I once was a dreamer,
but from where I stand
such dreams I dream
are considered invalid