Pieces By Pieces, Pt. 1

found, and never lost again

a.k.a. with papers on the floor and ink bleeding on nothing, i say, “maybe words are not enough to describe you”

you are afternoon walks under the sun’s rage and we burn whenever, but it feels good like cold water caressing our skin, and we know we’re alright you are running on a sidewalk with laughter beating the sound of cars as background music, and the smell of meat pies that i love to eat you are the feeling of falling asleep after a tired day, and you are stolen kiss in the dark and heavenly giggles after our lips part you are lullabies at dawn and ballads on rainy days, and when i want to dance, i dance to your name, i dance to your heartbeat you are my wild love (the “i won’t” to my “why don’t you leave me”, and the “libre kita” to my “gutom ako”) and one day you’ll be the horrible smell of morning breath, you’ll be the glorious taste of morning coffee, you’ll be the unnecessary fights after eight o’clock, and the bouquet of exquisite roses waiting on the kitchen table at 15 past five, (the “take care” after “i’m off to work”, the “good night” after “i love you so much”, and the “midnight snack lang” after “saan ka pupunta?”) and you’ll still be my wild love, i’ll still be loving you, and writing about you, and you’ll still be my wild love (my “pangit ka”, my “damulag”, my “babuy”, my “love”)

(eusie.)

ask me if i'm fine. i promise i'll say i'm okay as long as i hear your voice

“Sometimes I wonder / if I’m really the best / person for this body.”

— — John Elizabeth Stintzi, from “Salutations From the Storm,” Junebat

i am not a dreamer. i do not wish upon stars. they will suck every letter of our dreamy words. they let us taste lies from every glimmer they give for our eyes to hold. they look down on us, laughing. they watch us as our grounds shake, as our souls skin out every last smile we own. i am not a dreamer. i am not hopeful. i do not hope for impossible truths. i do not hope for palpable things to become blur. because reality is right in front of us, taking out every pain in between our eyes for us to feel, and we already can’t do anything about it, but to just accept and take everything. what’s on the tip our tongues are mantras we need to swallow. we need to stop hoping. we need to.

eusie., “to the boy who’s in love with the sun” (an excerpt)

you should spread your smile on my neck, and eat me like i’m your favorite breakfast. then i'll bite the crumbs on your shoulder blades; baby, you're the sweetest dessert

on the table (eusie.)

things you don’t know: if he loves you back you think he might

But I think you write great?

Oh. Hi. Thanks. IDK if this is how you meant to write this compliment(?). But with that question mark at the end, I think you’re even questioning yourself if I really write great. Lol. But if you really mean it, then thanks, like seriously. Good evening

gb vkfckxjskhf ;isdujeidhfiLAdH FIEKJFif eihfow can't write anything ielhkdnfoia HGEJDFI J iejfei can't even think straight fheuwljfhdn ; idkhfnd no pun intended

Love like yours will surely come my way

A poem written by Beau Taplin entitled, “Vacation”

a.k.a. That’s literally the title, and the poem is in italic by the way

I need to move around a bit. To shuffle my surroundings.

The day it all sank in, I didn’t find myself on the kitchen floor. But I sat on a chair, crying my heart out to the extent that I wanted it to disappear; I didn’t want a broken heart. The sobs that came from my sour lips bounced to the walls and then to oblivion, as if they knew that they were useless anyway.

To wake up in cities I don’t know my way around and have conversations in languages I cannot entirely comprehend.

I didn’t know what to read from these unknown yearnings at around two in the morning, of sad movies or sad songs, or probably just sad love. Or at mid-afternoon, when I wake up wanting something I don’t even know. Or when it rains, trying to reach out my hands and feel the drops and feel, just feel.

There is always this tremendous longing in my heart to be lost,

But after then, I know. I want to be lost in a place unknown, but then find myself in the same location where I think I forgot my soul. I want to wake up and walk to a balcony to see a different set of lights and colors waving at me from the day before. I want my heart to ache with the sight of people falling in love and knowing that I wouldn’t encounter the same love story the next city I’m in. I want to feel the lack of a familiar emotion when I come home, but know someday, I’ll be able to really forget the emptiness in my chest and really come home.

to be someplace else, to be far far away from this.

But I know that with these obligations wrapping me on my neck and disabling me to breathe properly, I have no choice of running away to find out the bliss of going to different places and being held captive by their beauty. I know that being lost in a place where no one knows my name and how my heartstrings tangle each other up to form my lonely soul is better than being found in a place where everyone drags me around and force me to suppress my dreams to want myself and feel myself and love myself after I lose myself.

(eusie.)