I am not the one to hold hands. No. Not really. Not that I’m too clean to be touched. No. But baby, when you told me you are afraid to die, I almost knotted my knuckles into your fingers until my muscles and bones moulded into a singular grip of structure on my hands.
I am not the one to text first. No. Not really. Not because I was pinched by my pride. No. But honey, when you told me you are sick and you have nothing to eat, I would run to your door and bring you your favorite sinigang and never leave on your door.
I am not the one to hint a kiss. No. Not really. Not that I’m too sick of your lips. No.
But lately, when you told me you screw up at your work and wanted to die, I almost grasp your paled lips until it no longer make a sound.
You’re the one who untangled your hands.
You’re the one who never left a message.
You’re the one who never attempted to kiss.
I have lose you.
If only I could be enough.