I cannot say if I should declare this now or not. The ice in my tea has created a layer of water above it, the lemon lays lip on the lip of the glass. and I quiver at the electric fan’s fierce winds. But I feel a warmth that feels strange to me. It’s spreading from my chest to all over. It’s a good kind of strange. I feel stronger. Lighter, even. These new days are opportunities for me to dive into newly discovered depths that I’ve always wanted to avoid. I liked seeing the shape of my footprints on the sand. I liked feeling the granules between the toes. The water that played on my feet always left me skeptical and frightened. The seas had its own secrets. I wasn’t ready to venture them unless I’ve resolved mine. But the skies were gentler as it guided me into the waters I’ve always only observed from afar. The shore was my sanctuary, a safer place. But I was ready to feel the rush of danger in my veins again. For as long as I could remember, I was always one to sacrifice everything to keep a significant soul within my small but kind days. They chose to leave. I’ve been left countless times. But right now, I’m okay with that. There’s a certain clarity in wanting to go blind-drunk and searching for answers within recurring questions. There’s a certain fulfillment in realizing that falling this far down taught me to fly. I’m still scared. There’s still a void. But I am never alone and never empty. In this strange new chapter, I am beautiful.

(Source: artreture)

I once knew three friends. Sadness, Angst and Acceptance.

We all lived next door to each other. You can say we’re neighbors, but we’ve never engaged ourselves in conversation. The walls of our apartments were thin so it didn’t take much effort to hear what we were all thinking. For most parts of the day, I ate cereal and read a book. My apartment isn’t big but I got all the space I need: a bed, a bookcase, a small coffee table, a fridge and a desk for my laptop, files and boxes of cereal. I moved in just a couple of weeks ago. Sadness gave me a half-smile when I parked my car at the lot this morning. I passed by Angst while I was on my way to throw the trash. Acceptance left a small plant in a mustard-yellow pot on my door-step when I got home from work. It read, “From Acceptance, to you”.

Sadness intrigued me because even though she didn’t say much, her paintings spoke for her. I think she does pieces and sells them in galleries. I once passed by her apartment and her door was open. Her place was a mess but it was beautiful to me. There were blots and splotches of paints on the walls. Her bed sheets were prints of paint, so you can’t tell where the messy floor ends and where the walls began. Her paintings spoke of melancholic stories. But what made them different were that they all had hope in them. Angst mostly kept to herself on weekends. Weekdays, she’s always out. A friend of hers once brought her home. He carried her to her apartment and left. I could hear Angst weep as she hit her pillow until she eventually passed out. Moments later, there were clinking of beer bottles and the sound of a lighter pressed repeatedly until she had flung it across the room. I heard it through my wall. She didn’t yell or scream, but after that, her silence was sharp like daggers. You could feel the walls bleed because of it. There were times when we’d cross paths on the way to the parking lot. She would look at me and force a smile. But her eyes held so much pain. Acceptance on the other hand always had an eye out for the two. She worked at the library, just six blocks away. She once left a book on oil painting at Sadness’ doorstep. When Angst left her door open after a drunken night, Acceptance cleared her room and tended after her. She cooked, left the food on her table and placed several tea bags next to it.

The four of us still haven’t spoken to each other. But I consider them as my friends. Something tells me that the stolen glances and subtle smiles were all the saving we would need. I always wanted to invite them for coffee but something tells me I shouldn’t. It’s better to keep everything as it is. After all, it’s just like the emotions that we feel: some happen to stay for always, some come to pass and most turn into memories. And I guess that’s alright.

I set my library identification card and keys on the table and headed to bed. There were wet paint drippings on the floor. I dodged them and dived into my pillows. There were empty beer bottles and cigarette boxes at the foot of my bed. I placed them inside the bin. Sighing to myself, I knew that there’s always hope in things that hurt. After glancing at the little plant that glowed silently on my bedside table, I bid the paintings on my wall good night and drifted off to sleep.

(Source: artreture)

I have nothing fancy to tell. Meeting Julie went just like how usual couples would; either through common friends, were already friends for a long while or an opportunity presented itself at a coffee shop. Ours was the latter, with a slight twist. When I met her though, I knew she was a keeper.

Our paths crossed at a coffee shop near our university. I was busy painting something on a small canvas, when a book unexpectedly hit my shoulder from behind. It fell on my lap. Thankfully enough, it wasn’t hard-bound. But its edge hit my clavicle. I rubbed the spot before picking up the book. Twenty Love Poems And A Song Of Despair by Pablo Neruda, I mouthed silently. Good choice.

“Eep! Sorry!” I spun around to follow the voice. A short-haired girl held several books supported by her right arm and hip while holding a hot beverage on the other. She extended a hand. I placed her book on it.

“Let’s just say I’m lucky that your books were what leaned towards me, and not your drink.” I chuckled. There were three empty seats on my table. I wanted her to take one but I didn’t know how to express that. She was a nervous girl who constantly adjusted the black-rimmed spectacles that rested on her gentle slope of a nose. There were a few freckles on her cheeks, like tiny peach-colored stars. I wanted to compliment her on this. But it was too soon. As it is, I was ahead of myself again.

“I’m so sorry. Did it hurt? After all… Well, it is about love and a song of despair. Haha!” She laughed at her retort for a couple of seconds before pulling an awkward expression. “The book, I mean,” she added. Something told me back then that she ran monologues in her head a lot. She looked away for a while and muttered to herself. I heard the word “doltish.” I made a mental note to myself during that moment to look into what it meant.

“Would you..?” I motioned her over to one of the vacant seats at my table. The coffee shop was full. Taking a wild guess from her lingering uneasiness, she meant to stay and finish her drink there. It took her a couple of seconds to react but she eventually nodded nervously and sat across me. She placed her books on the other chair next to her and took a sip from her cup.

I looked at her. “I want to do with you,” I said, “what spring does to the cherry trees.”

“Huh?”

“It’s by Neruda,” I said. I dwelled on what I quoted for a while. I then realized that what I said seemed perverted. I deserved her reaction. There was no chance for a smooth escape on that one. I didn’t bother trying.

“Oh, haha! Alright. Good poet huh?” she replied. “A friend referred Neruda to me. So far, I’m loving him. But the line that you just said did sound corrupt though haha!” She laughed a lot in between her sentences. I found it both odd and endearing. And yes, darn it, what I said did sound corrupt.

I bowed and shook my head apologetically. She said it was alright.

“So you paint huh?” she asked. I nodded. I leaned the canvas toward her direction so she could take a good look at it. I told her it was inspired by a painter called Albert Bierstadt. “I could tell. Kinda,” she said. “I read about him once. Hints of romanticism in his paintings could be found with the way he played with light and all.” She plucked a tissue from the dispenser and wiped a coffee stain from the side of her lips.

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” I said, slightly embarrassed. I was merely on Google earlier that day, searching for a piece I could imitate for my oil painting class. All I knew was that it was made in 1860. She was very chatty for someone who just met another in a short span of time. But it was this conversation that led to many more.

Being the only son and child to my parents, my choice in taking Painting didn’t please them as much as it did me. But thanks to my generous uncle, he encouraged me to go after what I wanted. Julie on the other hand took up Journalism, so she was busier than I was. After that incident in the coffee shop, we met up several times. Hanging-out led to dates, until the dates led to a beautiful commitment.

She was my first relationship and yes, this was odd since I was a guy and university was usually the place where everyone could get away with anything. But I wasn’t like that. I was infatuated with this girl called Nancy back in high school. I courted her for 2 years and she ended up dating a college guy who wore his polos with the collars up. After breaking my heart and seeing the disgusting sight with the collar, I decided to turn asexual and focus my attention on romanticizing over canvases and paint. It was a good decision. Simply because it led me to meeting Julie eventually.

I wanted to emphasize on the moment when Julie and I met for the first time because it was what really struck me the most. I could still remember the scent of her hair, even if she was right across me. It was coconut-y. I didn’t like coconuts in particular, but after making an awkward remark about how her hair smelled like the meadow, she laughed and said she used coconut-flavored shampoo. She didn’t get to finish her drink because her father came and picked her up fifteen minutes after we met. But a lot happened within those minutes. It was a beautiful fifteen-minute moment that introduced me to my best friend and my soul-mate. A few years later, we still did everything together. Like two kids at a park, we ran across vast spaces and felt the wind rush between our arms and legs.

Julie loved writing letters to me. When we were apart during vacation with our families and relatives, she would send posts and I would be giddy every time. Whenever I sent my reply, I always enclosed a drawing or two of her favorite Calvin And Hobbes comic. We also met each others’ families during Christmas one time. They seemed to have received each other well. My mom’s cupcakes and her dad’s unique lasagna recipe seemed to have put everybody in a great mood that we were able to sneak into the backyard for a few minutes to exchange kisses. It wasn’t a very dangerous move but hiding gave us both the immature rush of wanting to stay young. The little things such as her epistles, the way she clucked her tongue whenever she was upset, the way her hair fell on her face and spectacles and the lone dimple that rested on her right cheek, remain etched in my mind. I bring her wherever I go. Even if it isn’t the same way for her anymore.

There’s nothing else fancy to tell. Meeting Julie went just like how usual couples would; either through common friends, were already friends for a long while or an opportunity presented itself at a coffee shop. Ours was the latter, with a slight twist. But just like some relationships, we were unfortunate enough to not make it to the end. I don’t want to focus on what went wrong. I’d rather recall the moments that will always remain beautiful to me. How I met her will always remain as it was: innocent and genuine. Julie will always be a part of me. Our promises and dreams have been long interspersed into the wind, like poppy seeds and strewed dandelions. But I know they’ve landed in good places. I still keep her letters. It reminds me of how good and great something was, even if that something isn’t what she believes to be true anymore. But in one point in time she did, and that’s what matters. In the dust and haze, she’ll remain to be the brightest star in the titanic, inky sky that lays before me. My nervously-blinking, peach-colored star - always.

(Source: artreture)

It wasn’t just a toy to her. She scooped it in her arms lovingly as soon as the check-out counter-lady at IKEA handed it to her. She was already in university at the time, and didn’t care if people observed an eighteen-year-old ferociously hugging a toy on the plane back home. The first time she laid her eyes on the the inanimate panda, she knew he guaranteed dandy adventures to share and keep. She loved rubbing her thumb and finger on his feet. His cheeks were snowy and cottony-soft. His eyes drooped in an inviting manner as if slumber, during any part of the day, was an idea well-received. Its small black ears popped out like two gentle slops on its sable, pillowy head that she loved to kiss. She was very fond of him. She decided to name him Punda. He accompanied her through several sleepovers and got his fair share of the rain and harsh, humid rays of the sun while on the commute to places. His once milky-white cloud for an exterior now had spots of gray and mud stains. She tried to bathe him once, but after a few showers and being laundered, Punda started to get thin. This saddened her for a while, recalling the first day she held a plump, rotund stuffed panda in her arms. But she loved him all the more. He’s seen more than what he should have, spending several nights of every year watching her cry over a silly boy or when she missed a friend who was overseas. It was inevitable to feel lonely at times, but Punda made sure the feeling never stuck around for more than an hour or so. Despite being wordless, his presence was enough for her. She would hug him until she fell asleep and he would watch over her until it was daybreak. He made sure he kept her safe and that she only had the sweetest dreams.

It’s been a while since she parted from Punda. She’s 22 now, yet her attachment towards him only grew. She knew that a loved one needed his company so she gave Punda to him. She missed feeling safe around her monochromatic cloud and even though she had a few other stuffed loves lying around her bed, Punda was incomparable. He was not just a toy. He was her friend. She only hoped that the person she gave him to is taking good care of her piece of the skies. She also hoped that Punda is being treated with nothing but love and care.

She misses Punda. Actually, she misses them both.

(Source: artreture)

I felt like a caged bird in the very skies I was born into. The wind was keen in my wings but I was trapped and held down by an invisible anchor. It clipped itself to the infirm portions of my pinions. It was impossible to not undulate when sheer weight from nowhere tugged on my already flimsy mien. There was no land in sight in this azure, but the perpetual expanse of a calm ocean. The waves sounded gentle in my ears. Fear rested itself in between my chest, but it was also what kept me afloat. I spotted virescence from a distance. My tired, suspended feet wiggled in excitement. I blinked rapidly to make sure this wasn’t chimera. A fellow, wheezing bird joined me in flight from the opposite direction. It panted and was trying to tell me something. Its feathers were unwashed and mucky, but his eyes were clear as crystal. I felt his excitement quiver through my wings. I was approaching a haven; those who have travelled far and wide were safe here. I landed softly on a rock and scanned my surroundings. Some were impaired; limping on one leg, a broken wing wobbled to the side and several flickering eyes strayed at my direction. I walked towards the shade of a coconut tree and rested. I could barely move my wings, but I was happy to rest upon the white, powdery sand. I was surrounded by fellow caged wing-people that were nowhere near Utopian flawlessness, or the majestic paragon that they’ve spoken of in books. I was tired, breathless and broken. But I think I’ve finally found my nest.

(Source: artreture)

I travel alone in this stormy sea
My ship, so old, afraid she might give up on me
I try to steer in ways, so many
The wind and the waves, raging fury

Wondering how long this is to last
I wish I had a spell to cast
So many unsaid things, where to start
Like a broken boat, the same fate owns my heart

Summers pass, paddling away from months
That we’ve broken and split, permanent dents
Lay between us; you’re still under my skin
The lighthouses remind me of you and how you’ve been

I’d prefer to stay out here, away from streets
Where you could be, away from your winding feet
I’d prefer to be with my little ship, away from your eyes
Before I get lost in you and in another goodbye

~ artreture | silentrhymes

I remember the sound
Of excitement and glee
That slithered with me to bed
Even if I was wide awake
Waiting for your letters

I remember the truth
Despite the stretch of land and sea
That echoed from my end to yours
As our love remained like chains
In a world of paper-strong promises

I remember the warmth
As our palms touched
For the very first time,
As we breathed and sighed
Under the same starry sky

I remember the shadows
That reminded me of what once was
The cobwebs that never left
And the deafening silence
That got me begging for March

I remember the aching
Soaked pillows, creased sheets
And the long, sad evenings
As bridges were broken and burnt
Before I could get to your side

I remember everything
Like the back of my hand
But like all things
Everything has an end;
It’s time to bid it goodnight

(Source: artreture)

“Tell me not to go
And that you won’t let me”

But we’re like
North and South
The sun and the rain
Almost alike
But never the same

Two trains
From opposite directions,
Getting nearer
But never meeting;

So close, yet so far
Almost, but closer to never

We had the perfect beginning,
Only to forfeit its happy ending

(Source: artreture)

In the car with my uncle
And his beautiful family
Their kid’s almost thirteen
I was disgruntled at twenty two

On the way home
My cousin fell asleep
With her mouth slightly ajar
My aunt laughed

“She looks just like you,
Even in sleep,” she said
My uncle smiled
He looked back at the road

After several seconds
With one hand on the wheel
He reached the other
To hold my aunt’s hand

Without eyes meeting
They smiled, held hands;
After all these years
Some first loves do last

(Source: artreture)

I stepped onto the train platform. The sun was high in the sky. The station wasn’t stifled with coldness like what I was used to. For five years, it was an air-conditioned atmosphere everywhere. This was a sudden change, but I liked being back home. Sweat rolled down by nape and onto my shirt. I dabbed a small towel at it and sighed. I adjusted my Ray Bans and took a whiff of the familiar polluted air from the streets, four feet below the station. I haven’t been here in several years. The weather determined I was indeed back home. The sun had a temper and the clouds made a point to keep out of its way.

The sound of the approaching train reached the station. Three women to my left were talking about the tragic story of a woman that was shown on the news the previous night. Something made a noise behind me. A man opened a bag of chips but placed it back inside his bag when a train warden pointed to the “No Eating/Drinking” sign lazily hanging on the grimy wall. Moments later I heard munching. I spun around pretending to dust something off my back. Yes, he was eating his chips. Crumbs formed at the side of his mouth. Some fell on his black jacket. I could see the dim lights of the train. They probably weren’t dim. The train came from the direction where the sun was and everyone had their hands to their foreheads to block its unforgiving light. The platform was filled with people rushing, all at once. Some pushed each other. Others felt faint. High school kids in their creased uniforms were chattering about milk-tea, the latest gossip on a teen idol and their hair.

I was in queue in the ladies cabin but I was pushed at from all directions. I decided to sprint to the nearest one instead. There was space for just me, yet a plump woman with saggy breasts pressed her body against me, seconds before the train’s door closed. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. The train moved. I couldn’t feel where my bag was. I looked down and saw it was zipped properly. I held it on my chest to block the woman’s breasts from creating sweat upon my dress. I turned around and saw a sea of clammy backsides of shirts and uniforms. Summer has been unkind. The expressions on their faces were either embellished by annoyance or had the look of defeat. An infant was crying in a corner. It was in a pram, pushed by a middle-aged man in a buttoned-down polo. The heat and swarm of people around it must have woken it up from its sleep. Finally, we reached a stop.

Almost everyone got off the train. This station led to the biggest mall in the city. I took a deep sigh of relief, adjusted my side bag from my right to my left and took a seat. I was headed to the park, which was five stations away. The train was close to deserted. The middle-aged man wiped beads of sweat from his forehead from the back of his hand and sat on the vacant seat. He then carried his crying child in his arms, gently rocking it back to sleep. The child was a girl, no older than 4 months. I smiled at the man, who responded by tilting his little girl toward my direction, whispering to her that I was smiling at her. The child’s eyes were swollen from all the crying. But she gurgled, eventually falling back to sleep. The man continued to sweat even if the poor air-conditioning systems of the train were slowly improving. I handed him my tissue packet. He said thank you, kind eyes touching a piece of my soul. I nodded.

You could tell the difference of a place just by looking at how buildings stood from the ground, or the way trees swayed to the wind. There were barely any birds in the sky. Where I’ve been for the past five years, it was clear blue skies, neat roads and shiny buildings that lit up the night. As I look out the train window, I see dusty edifices, tangled telephone wires, laundry from windows in disarray and broken down jeepneys. I found myself smiling, until I felt a wave of sudden unease rush over me.

Someone has been staring at me for a while now. He had a familiar polo on where a slight belly bulged. His hair drooped upon his dark grey rimmed glasses that pivoted your attention to his beautiful, round eyes. I held my breath for several seconds and felt a knot in my stomach. It was Johnny.

“Hey.” I managed to blurt out. I suddenly became conscious. I tugged at my dresses to relieve it off its creases and shuffled my shoes, one upon the other.

“Nervous huh?” His eyes looked at my shuffling feet, to which I stopped.“Mind if I sit next to you?” He smiled reluctantly.

I shook my head and moved over to give him some space. I looked at the opposite direction and my eyes widened. I forgot that the man with the baby was just a couple of seats away from me. He smiled a kind smile, with a trace of “I know what this is but I’ll be quiet”.

Johnny sat next to me. He wasn’t close but the apparent nearness only encouraged my wordlessness. We didn’t say anything for five minutes, even if it appeared to feel like an eternity of awkwardness. I looked at his shoes. They were new. His pants were jeans. His backpack was Jansport. It wasn’t bulky, but I could tell there were a few books inside them by the outline it had from the outside. I could tell he was glancing now and then. My shoes started to shuffle again. I pinned my feet onto the floor. Stop shaking. I heard a buzz. It was from his phone that was inside his pocket. He ignored it.

“So, how have you been?” He finally spoke, though it seemed more like he croaked the words out.

“I’m well, I’m well,” I replied, “Just got back. A few days ago.”

“You’re back for good?” I found him looking at me. I looked at him and nodded.

“You’re still working for the airline company?” I inquired. A pang ached from within and memories of the relationship and how it ended came rushing back in an instant. I tried to shake it away. I couldn’t lose my cool. At least, I’m not going to let him see it.

He nodded, “Yeah. But I got transferred to the administration office just two years ago. I’m the head of the Human Resource department. Work’s tougher, with all the files and constant employee meetings. But it’s better than being a part of the cabin crew. I don’t have to be awake during the times when the body needs sleep.”

“I see,” I nodded, “Congratulations then. That’s good to hear.”

Silence rolled on for several more minutes. I checked my watch, in twenty minutes I would be reaching my stop. The train reached the next station and the middle-aged man waved to me before he got off.

“It was nice of you. To give him your tissue packet.”

“Oh, um. Thanks, hehe.” I didn’t know what to say. I said everything I could five years ago. Of all the places and of all the times I could have run into Johnny, it had to be today. It had to be during a hot day and inside a deserted train.

A buzzing sound went on again and this time Johnny took his phone from his pocket. He typed a text message and sent it. Another pang. Flashbacks of a drunken night, a strange woman and angry voices over the phone careened into my mental vision. I looked away, pretending to not have witnessed anything. The sun was on my face. I’d rather have it on me than remember anything that may or may not determine how the rest of the day will be for me.

“It’s work, don’t worry,” he said softly.

I pretended to not hear him. I gave him a quizzical look that adjusted into a “I don’t mind or care at all really” kind of smile. Even though I felt otherwise.

Twenty minutes passed and we were still seated next to each other, bereft of conversation. In the past years, I’ve been practicing speeches that I knew I would never tell him. But I was suddenly getting verses of it back again. Should I say something? Should I ask him out for coffee? I was nervous and panicking in my silence. I clutched my bag close to me, trying my best to suppress the shuffling of my shoes. I took a deep breath. I’ll take this chance. I will.

Before I could say anything, Johnny’s phone rang.

“Hello? Yes. I’m on my way to work. Yes. Yes. Your journal’s with me. I’ll be there soon. Okay. I love you too.” He ended the phone call.

I looked out the train window again, my heart pounding loud in my chest. My eyes were going to fail me anytime soon, I know it. But I stayed calm for as long as I could. I could feel him get tense but he said nothing. The train was approaching a stop, I decided to get off on this one.

“I’m gonna head off now. You take care okay?” I blurted out these words without looking at him directly in the eye.

“Katherine, wait -“

“I’m sorry I need to go. It was nice seeing you. Take care okay?” I waved and quickly got out. I walked quick, knowing nothing but to get as far as possible away from the train. I thought I heard footsteps catching up to me. But I turned around and found nobody.

I sat on a bench, forehead on my knees, palms over my eyes. My heart sank. I whimpered. The station to the park was three stops previous to this one. And I knew that. 

footprints on sand
sipping on an empty cup
the sunrise is beautiful
yet home is quite a long while

old stars wheeze
you’ve come a long way
I can see lines on your forehead
has your soul travelled lifetimes?

my bed’s rough
with a love growing strong
yet it weeps;
I am needing, we are needing

navigating days
in my mind
I am patient, I am no star
but I fall faster; my scars glow

looking up
rusty skies, sharp sands
water won’t turn up
but your taste is safe beneath 

I’ve tools but I want sleep
to break, sleep and burn -
please learn for me, love
inside you is where you trace me

(Source: artreture)