There were letters I wrote you that I gave up sending long before I stopped writing. And here are the reasons why:
I don’t remember you even in a blur. I don’t remember you sitting on a couch, we’re face to face, and you’re just staring how my lips touched the hot porcelain that it marked pink on immaculate sides.
I don’t remember the day I saw you munching your nails at the candy store because damn I was so annoyed that I hit your hand in a rush. I was sorry. You were sorry.
Our first kiss, at our freshly soaked backyard, no I can’t remember. I can’t remember how I wished to close my mouth because I don’t think that’s the right time. Nonetheless, I opened it; slowly. Like I was shouting to my brother in a slow motion; Like I was sleep talking because I dreamt about my aunt and I loved explaining to her things; Like I was savoring the summer pepper liquor of the sea, and the soft, long, hair braid of a six year old kid just caressed my lips as I kept on shutting my face like a dream; the best thing about dreaming is when you can feel everything without complaining how it feels. When feelings stroke you, you dreamt about dreaming the same thing over and over until you got tired of sleeping, and it’s not your fault. It is your body’s fault. Pain can stay in bed whenever you plan to sleep. But when we kissed, I wished it was a dream. I feel more when dreaming than being awake. I don’t remember you.
Our first hand touching, I don’t remember it. I don’t remember how you awkwardly leaned your arms over the wounded sofa while we’re watching MTV, and you waited for several minutes to find the perfect tempo of music that will coat your desire. You didn’t know I noticed that. Your fingers were thumbing down to my arms. Right now, I can still feel your digits in my shoulder. Heavy, but you tried to make it light. The next thing I knew, you’re holding my hand. We’re holding our hands. Shaking. But not too shaky. Cold. The average moisture of our palms made me think of letting go with the shame but I didn’t. I didn’t because it’s your hand. There’s something special about your hand that I couldn’t quit. We were sixteen then, childhood tied up our hands into one – until now. Our hearts. I don’t remember you.
Your texts, those virtual hugs and smiles, no I don’t. I don’t remember how you painted my tears with lies of “Everything will be fine.” “You are fine.” “It will be fine.” “We are fine.” and how I spitted all of it with the truth. I was not fine. And I will never be fine. We can never be fine with just “fine.” For me, saying I will be fine meant for keeping my shits together. Alone. And the people who say “fine” are people who really don’t give a fuck. Fuck with my feelings, because I don’t remember you.
The letters I made that I gave up sending to were just words and they bleed. Endlessly. Every strokes and every curves of each letters were still the hint of scars mended long ago, but still itched every midnight that I scratched it until it renewed as wounds again. Crispy skin. It is still bleeding. Endlessly. Pain is in my bed all the time that when I dream there’s a picture of you in a larger scale of vision, zooming in front of my eyes. All is white except from your skin. There, I feel all the versions of pain that tortured my bones of sixteen summers and fourteen winters at once. My heart feels heavy like I dropped it on myself. I do remember. I do remember memories.
And for all eternities, it urges me to write and write more letters for you and burn them all at the same time. Those flesh drenching dreams, this numbed body. I don’t remember you.
This is the last letter saved from my drawer. You can make an airplane out of it; or a ship; or a box; or you can just crush it and burn it in the bulimic rays of sun. Whatever. Just don’t read it. This is meant for wasting every bits of remnants in our downfall called love. Waste. Every. Single. Thing. Don’t ever smell the paper. This was meant to hurt.
In the end, I would say to myself: Everything will be fine. It will be fine. I will be fine. Then spit.
*For love and crumpled memories I wish were gone
Nakaka-turn off talaga ‘yung kapag katext mo Jeje. Don’t get me wrong. Hindi ako matapobre. Pero iritang-irita talaga ako. ‘Yung ako pa ang maga-adjust para maintindihan ang bagay na mababaw rin naman.
Hindi ako elitista. Well, sa behavior, hindi. Pero sa taste, gusto ko rin naman ng quality.
Feeling ko kasi, kapag you messed with your language, you messed with your life. Language is the basic unit of communication, tapos ifi-fail mo pa? D!b4aAhH?
Siguro nga, in a fashion sense, baka ito ay istilo lang sanhi ng progresibo ng lengguwahe. Progresibo ba ang pagiging Jeje?
Kunsabagay, hindi naman natin madidiktahan ang mga Jeje na huwag maging Jeje. Pero puwedeng gawan ng paraan. Thru words din. Tulad nito. Jina-judge ko sila. Baka kapag nabasa nila ito, ma-realize nilang ang baduy nga nila. Or puwede ring murahin nila ako with their language. With accent.
Makatulog na lang.