rip
She was a playful smile and carefully concealed shyness when he said, well, I like girls--pause--with bangs--pause--and ponytails. And she laughed, her bangs falling in her eyes and her ponytail bobbing with her mirth. She wanted someone smart, she said, and he had to know at least one instrument. His fingers, flickering over guitar strings. The ease of it. The certainty of it. And the music. And he had to have a sense of humor, and he had to have the same faith as her.
Not of any religion. Not of any ministry. They were the Church. She was the Church. The Bride. A Son of God whose will was her Father's
I love you, he whispered, arms tight around her if just to hold her up. She couldn't squeeze back hard enough. Not hard enough to say, he mattered so much. Not hard enough to say, she was struggling; she didn't want to let go. Not hard enough. The rosaries hung limp around the car's front mirror.
Not hard enough.
I am not someone...who can't hurt him, she said. And to herself: I don't want to. Her letters sprawled across her diaries: I am not being fair. She had to choose. She had to choose. He had already chosen--
I want this to last.
Not hard enough.
The ring of her covenant vanished into the 7:00PM shadows of the car interiors. A tny clink and it escaped her. The ring of her promise. I will be true to my Father's will. I will wait for the one He made for me. I will be true to my parents' trust. I will live a Christ-like living. I know I have a purpose. I have a destiny. I am a Son...
His shoulder cradled her head. Comfort. A desperation to help. God, how can this be wrong?
Her faith was where she found fulfillment. Without it, she knew, she couldn't be the best that she can be. She would be lost. And now it was asking her to let him go, and she didn't want to, and she had to, and she had promised, and she was supposed to have given up her will already, and she clung to him, and wished he wouldn't kiss her, but, so close, she could only evade for so long, and he did.
And she felt lost. In him. From herself.
Carpe diem. Happiness.
Obedience. Faith.
There was no compromise. She had always been so hesitant about decisions, always searching for a way to have the best of both sides. But these were absolutes now, and she was off-balance. She was tottering. It was a mess and she was struggling and hurt. Undecided.
And Terrified.
Wait with me.
If you understand everything, it wouldn't be so painful.
She kissed him. I'm sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry. For what? I'm sorry, for a lot of things. Don't be. I am.
I'm sorry it's so hard.
How it hurt.
So maybe you are a mistake.
People make mistakes. But there are some mistakes that they don't regret making. Celebrate our youth. our impudence, our lives. There are things people don't mind learning the hard way. They want things, even a few that they know can hurt them. They want and they pursue and they get hurt sometimes, but in time, they become ready to let go. They can't always be safe. They don't want to always be safe.
God, what do You want me to do?
God, how is this so wrong?
No strings attached, her mom said.
No strings attached.
I want this to last.
How it hurt.
10:49PM. She had to go. He had to rest. The clutter of her things collected in her hands, still without her covenant ring. If they had time, he'd hold her again. Never hard enough. Desperation to help. And she, always silent, wanting to rest and get away at the same time. Lost, off balance her. About to leave. Tomorrow, he said. She thought, really...? How it hurt.
And he held her again, a sad, beautiful, sincerely selfless arrest from behind. I want this to last. She needed her faith. Comfort. Rest. So close, again. Lost. In him, from herself, somewhere between carpe diem and the clink of her covenant ring exiting into shadows. Head against his shoulder. His eyes searching her, searching for her. Rest. So close, again.
And then, he found her.
Take care, she whispered, and thank you, before she shut the door and turned at last away.
font
Her letters sprawled across the screen. Verdana. She thought it was verdana. Some font style. Some font size. Her deepest thoughts, her core, in Verdana. Or some font style. Whatever.
--- written 03 June 2007
human drama
Take a peek into my soul.
My honesty. My hormones.
The soul that laughs
and cries and kisses.
My emotions.
My feisty, rebellious charge,
flushing my cheeks and writing my letters.
The flood of ink and lead in my
sketchpad.
My humanity. My imperfection.
My mess of dreams and diaries.
All the things that everyone recognizes.
That little thespian soul.
--- written 02 June 2007
first
She had written in her diary: I would choose betrothal.
-----
Begin.
He told her to watch the brakes when rounding the curve. Follow the road. Feel where you are leading the car. Always, the brakes. Turn. Release. Turn. Release. Brake when in doubt. Accelerate only so slightly when you need to. Careful. Drive Slowly when rounding a curve. Don't do what he does. Go. Turn one more time. One more round. Go. She evaded the puddle. Good, he said. Good. Aid the wheel.
The sudden crash of rain took them outisde, beneath the water, in the cold. He wanted a kiss in the rain. She wanted a kiss in the rain. Beneath the lamppost, he said. She laughed.
Shiver.
Sodden cotton squished against leather as they surrendered the rain and the cold and the kiss to a layer of mist on the windshield and windows. The rain roared. He shivered. Cold embrace tried to warm cold embrace, saying, sorry, I'm sorry. It was so much fun. Are you okay? His breathing was uneven. Heavy.
She could feel him against her. The rise and fall of labored breathing. The warmth of breath. So close. So close. He wanted to kiss her. She wondered if he would, tonight. What's a kiss worth? It's a decision, she said. A manifestation of a decision. He asked, what if I've decided? He said, I cant do it alone.
Scary shit. Like a blindfold on the world as she suffered the torment of her indecision, like a shadow cloak of sorts, the lights flickered off. Blackout. And there was only her and him and the mist on the windshield and windows. Please wait with me, she thought. Kiss me. So selfish. Such a selfish, scared girl. He couldn't do it alone. So undecided. Please wait with me.
It's one thing to be kissed; another to kiss back.
She lent him a shirt and a jacket so he wouldn't suffer the cold anymore. He wouldn't look at her and she waited. I'm sorry for this, he said. They sank into each other again. And then, he moved her head. Moved her soul. Nose rolled over nose.
And she was frozen. She was tension. She was repression. She was uncertainty. His lips against hers, she was uncertainty.
Movement.
Was she doing it right? Pull away. Pull away. What next? She thought, what next? Once, twice, thrice. Shy and gentle. While the world napped in the rain. She could not give in. Not completely. Again. Again. Her soul, her principles, her promises wouldn't give in.
One thing to kiss; another to kiss back.
She was fear.
She was shock.
And then, she rested against him. Unsure. Terrified. Blood surging. Wait with me.
Whatever the consequences of this may be, he said, I'm ready to face them. Consequences. Oh, she was fear. She was elation. She was uncertainty.
I'm sorry I'm so bad at it, she said. Someone had told her to make it good. Hell. Sincerity was plenty good enough. It was love.
She was frozen.
The timing. Wait with me. The timing.
She was elation.
She was fear.
Was that it? No. That was it. She was so bad at it. The blood surged, thud after thud.
She was tension.
He whispered, I love you.
--- written 29 May 2007
to ponder
"We can never be born enough. We are human beings;for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of growing:which happens only and whenever we are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming." - e.e. cummings
glimmer
Glimmer as the sun does on rippling water
Like the moon trails on the sea--
Clinging to the surface, riding the waves.
Glimmer like the warmth that calls to the drowning
Lingering even as the water turns to ink with twilight.
Wait for the drowning to find you
And gasp for air.
parmenides has a point
maybe things are always as they are; it's just people who change.
maybe the world isn't constantly in flux in motion; it's only we who make it seem so. our senses lie to us, telling us one thing and then another. maybe that's why we have realizations. there are those moments when certain things become clear to us and we realize we haven't been seeing it the way that it is all along . it's not the thing that changed; it's our perception of it.
yes. maybe perceptions are the tricky ones. maybe the senses are the erratic ones. maybe our realities are illusions. after all, our minds can only give us our reality, not the reality.
maybe the world is less complicated than we think.
close up on cliche
Let's look at cliche, the book of the overfamiliar--
the anthology of things said too often.
People passing by...
When I look up at the sky...
Suffocation.
Drowning.
Darkness.
Screams that no one hears...
Yadda.
Templates and blueprints of pain.
Things people say "whatever" to.
Heard it. Been there. Done that.
Varying slangs of "I don't care."
Find new shades of red and black
because no one can just say it--
I'm tired.
And I'm lonely.
And I'm sad.
miss living thing
She was a spread of hair on glossy paper. Captioned Php*3-digit-number for her headband. Php4-digit-number for her skirt.
She was a Php3-digit-number hifalutin-shade-of-pink lipstick, and a cosmetics-covered pout with a cascade of hairsprayed bangs.
She was the scholar of her Php3-digit-number dangling earrings in 3-point lighting and Adbobe Photoshop.
And maybe you skipped over the word scholar, that single word there saying she does have a life.
*Philippine Peso
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