Luna Rivière

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perhaps, we'll never come to know why

we're both so unwilling; fearful to bare these wounds

too tired to make amends,

oh, how lost we've become

that we didn't even notice we've reached the end.

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Today's takeaway: You do not have to traverse a road filled with thorns or jump into depths to prove your bravery. You can stay inside this place you call home while surviving an internal windstorm; collecting the dried petals you didn't want to fall away from you, and still be called a fighter.

a.n.n

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I love the fact that you never left me, at least, in my mind, even after time has taken its toll on us. They say that memories do fade over time, but they did not tell you about the possibility of not being able to forget everything about that person who you dearly hoped to be with someday.

I’ve always believed, even up to this day, that you have taken a piece of me I wasn’t aware of. I have been to so many places, had many stories you were no longer a part of, and have met a lot of people. But I always find myself gravitating back to the idea of you – wondering if it crosses your mind that you are the greatest “what could’ve been” I have lived with every day and what if we actually spoke of endings. 

Sometimes, I just wished we continued. That we never stopped and left all these unanswered questions. Even though I always knew that we were not made to last. No matter how much I wanted us to. 

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When the clock lands at 3 PM, he would light up his cigarette. And I know what they tell you about secondhand smoke, but it's his fumes that I can only seem to tolerate. Though he colors his lungs as black as the night, I see the sun, covered by his clouds of gray. He is raw, warm, and pure as the light -- An extraordinary between the cliche. But I still wonder if that would be his last stick, or if he can shun the nicotine for just a week. Because he has made this place a bit more bearable. And maybe, I was fearful, of the thought that the sun will grow dimmer, from burning himself too much. Every 3 PM, when he strikes his match .

a.n.n

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I used to find solitude in loneliness. But now it can be seen, between the pages of poetry books, soft blankets, and girls with sunrise eyes. You are solitude and sunrise. Two wonders of the world you've worn in disguise. But not all are fond of silence and morning, you see. They won't find you in places they deem as ordinary. For you are not where the party is, or in the crowd, drifting towards the neon seas. You are not in these busy streets, filled with shops, smokes, and piercing beats. Until they grow weary, looking for you at quiet sites, because searching for the girl with sunrise eyes, is like waking up at five A.M. "But I'm not a morning person.", they will tell you. with resentment they will fume, whining at the alarm clock, 'til the last drop of coffee is consumed. But these people, shall not make you any less of a wonder, perceived as mess. Because the solitude of the sunrise is always beautiful, no matter who is awake to witness.

a.n.n

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The thing about people leaving without uttering any apologies, is that you will never be sure if you are bound to live your life scarred, in fear, or in doubt. Or will you relive the summer nights waiting in front of the door in hopes that they will come back to you with a promise that they will never again hurt you. But we were just kids, weren't we? Hopeless romantic children, who were oblivious to what is allowed and what is forbidden. It was uncertain, if we truly love the person right in front of us, or we just love the idea of them. I was just a kid, wasn't I? who wasn't sure of anything. But I was sure of one thing. That what I felt for him before was real -- A tangible thing. That is why, I will only relive the times when he made me happy. Because how can you hate someone who once made you happy? So if in this lifetime, we ever cross paths again with a smile, thank them For crafting a survivor out of you. For giving you a blissful youth too. // Hopeless romantic kids

a.n.n

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When asked what strength is,

my mind instantly drifts to images of her.

Have you met anyone

who gives off the vibe that she has:

lovely,

flower petals,

and soft-baked cookies.

But also exudes:

feisty,

inked skin,

and hard whiskeys.

Our encounter,

is getting a glimpse of what

beauty and danger looks like when mixed --

A heart so full,

that it will make you wonder

how good it must feel to be adored by her.

and what it must be like,

to own a sharp mind with flamed words

enough to start a revolution,

to not be nimbly shaped by

a man or the society --

to be a powerful deity.

Blessed are those

who will meet a person like her.

For she will have you ponder:

This is what our daughters should be.

This is what I aspire to be.

// Femme fatale

a.n.n

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A magic, you are like how Betelgeuse radiates from afar -- Fervent, Stark, Beguiling, you stand out amid the colorless of the evening A magic, you are You hold wonders like a tattoo on your skin, So to settle for subpar, My dear Betelgeuse, is a sin. Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse for someone as immense as you, to keep knocking on countless doors, to keep seeking for a safe haven, is tragic Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse Come, face the pristine mirror and reflect on this truth -- The right person will look past your vibrant colors Because to possess a love like yours, is the greatest magic.

//Betelgeuse

a.n.n

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The day you told me you love me was a revelation – a phrase I wore every day just to show off what it’s like to have “love” imprinted on your skin, a hum of the morning birds I used as a wake-up call, and the supple blankets I wrapped myself each night to make myself believe I was never alone.

Love, I thought, was the smell of popcorn in movie theaters while we are in line to get our tickets. Or how I try to cuddle inside your embrace as the film rolls. Maybe it was the smell of the coffee shop we used to go to, and then we would just sit there, thinking of subjects we could talk about.

Love, I thought, was the photo booth sessions I always plead for us to take. Or the look in your face with the sudden kisses I gave – now, forever immortalized in these photos. Or maybe it was when we circle these stores, hands interlocked, to try and sometimes buy what we think would look good on us. Love, I thought, was the times we would wait for a cab so you can drop me home. A time suspended in the waiting line and inside the car. I was happy. Definitely. Just sitting there. Close to you. Before we bid our goodbyes for the day.

Or Love, I thought, was just staying at home with you – where we would watch TV, browse interesting stuff, play games. Maybe, just maybe, it was the time when you would lay your head on my lap – my fingers exploring your soft hair, taking your scent in.

Love, I thought, finally, was you.

For me to picture love as someone who is tall with unruly hair, someone who wears glasses, was a revelation to me.

But no one ever told me what love is supposed to be like.

I have engulfed myself with the idea of love was you that I haven’t noticed that love was not supposed to push you away when the storm comes in. It should never. Ever. Tell you that you have the option to walk away when you voice out your truth. Love, will not take you out for a date, or stay at home with you, just to set you aside the next day.

Love, will not let you question if this is what you really wanted. Or hope for the things that you automatically deserve. Or ask for the things you think you deserve.

Love, will never make you think you are too much. It will never wait for you to be the first one to give it up. So that this person you thought was love, will never have to deal with regrets if you will be the first one to stop.

[caffeinatedpapers]

while you were asleep

wandering in an ethereal place

I cried my heart out

It's 12 AM

And i'm still crying my heart out

Teach me

how can i be at peace

knowing i've cut a wound too deep

that somebody

has to bleed the whole night

that somebody

has to mask her lips

to imprison her little voice

from coming out

Teach me

how to not feel

how to not end up

like this anymore

Why do we end up like this

why am i the only one

who ends up like this

when we just wanted

to love

to give our all

// Love month

a.n.n

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every time your taste buds will touch something sweet it will remind you of the times we made out of the times when my fingertips explored you like a road map and made sure that every inch of your body awaits my next step starving for my next move forgive me if i was so good at invading your mouth at caressing your tongue that every time you devour something exquisite it would taste like me

we made love like we were starving for days

a.n.n

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the marks you left on me

will be a reminder

that you've been here.

while your tongue trails

my skin

leaving traces of your ink

a mixture of purples,

desperation,

longing,

and pinks,

i have become yours,

soul,

body,

and infinitely yours.

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"You are the color yellow" He told me, The first one you would notice on the visible spectrum Eye-catching Vibrant A void filled with fragments of joy You thought I looked pretty wearing all these bright dresses Like a lava - Wild and stunning at a distance You thought my words looked pretty while they drip down my lips But the moment you touched me with your fingertips, You decided I was too bright Too treacherous for you And used your hands to block me from your sight But I am the color yellow, have you forgotten? A wildfire you cannot easily tame And only deserving for the people who still wish to remain

Yellow

a.n.n

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They said that writers are forgetful, but I'm not quite convinced that they really are. I fixed my sight on the belief that maybe I was just trying to make a fool out of myself. Or maybe I just don't actually have the qualities of a writer like what they made me believe. Because if writers are really forgetful, why can't I completely obliterate you from me after all these years? There was never a month you haven't crossed my mind. I despised back then how much you resemble my childhood conviction that the moon follows me everywhere I go. But now, when I think of it, how can I hate someone who once made me happy? I would love to enumerate all the things we did and all the words you said here, but it would take me time to do so for I clearly remember it all.  I clearly remember it all. All the times you called at night to play me a song, all the ways you made me feel. And how you inspired me to improve myself and believe that I can. I clearly remember that day you gave me a piece of paper to deliver your message before I leave for the city, in exchange, I left you a piece of my heart as well, never thinking twice how naive I was all along.  They said that every person in this place has their own "greatest what if", and if that is precise, you are that person for me. Maybe if we met in a different time or a different place, maybe things would've conspired to work in our favor. Maybe I could've told you that I sincerely loved you, and the moment I left you a piece of me, you have brought it everywhere you go, and though you are now a plane ride away, you still have me all along. Unknowingly, like my childhood conviction, following the tracks of the soul that once made me happy.

Second concealed letter: To J

a.n.n

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Friday nights are made of these:

Youth, intoxicating scents,

And people you can’t seem to appease.

While we burn down our lungs,

with empty hopes and half-done cigars,

you can keep on wondering for yourself,

why are you so full of love,

for people who left you nothing but scars.

And I’ve seen people like you, you see

Dressed up with innocence,

Looking for people to heed your plea

Yet, your soul do not suit this place

For you can only find beers, bottle of whiskeys

And minds filled with haze

The lights here will keep on blending in,

Touching all areas of your pristine skin

Painting you with red, oranges, and purples

A lovely portrait oblivious of the pitfall

  Until there’s no one to answer your calls

Then, you will realize and know

Why crushed spirits opt to go

Here in this place they used to loathe

Do the things they promised not to do

And grew up the way they are

For loving people who left them nothing

But empty hopes and permanent scars

a.n.n

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“And once we deemed a person as a home, a place that we will always look forward coming back to, do you think that it will be easy for us to just forget everything?

We will connect them to everything that we have loved so dearly – our rooms and all its clutter, but we tend to forget all the hurricane-stricken mess inside it because of the familiarity that seems to be already imprinted on our skins. 

They will be all the things suspended on the walls – Canvass, frames, you name it. All the abstract art that you keep, a thing our minds cannot deeply fathom, nevertheless, we have adored. All the photographs we have sealed in a frame, to remind us of a certain time we deeply cherish.

So the moment when they left, it will leave you wondering and searching. God, you will pin most of the places on the map in hopes that you will find them there. You will drive down every routes just to search for any traces they left. And it will be agonizing, as if it was the tacks that were intended for the maps pierced through our skin instead. But I pray, that one day you will come to realize, that once homes are built, there is no need for you to search for it anymore.

I pray that one day, we will all realize, that homes are meant to stay. They do not come and go just as they please, they will be there, with doors only us can open, with walls that are ready to warm us, and with foundations that is strong and steady enough to keep us.”

Home

a.n.n

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It’s amusing how after everything that has happened, you still wander inside my thoughts like an uninvited guest. I still think of you up to this day and contemplate on the past. We never talk with each other now, but it’s not like I’m surprised. People are like that in my life, they come and we drift apart without even glancing back. There were no goodbyes, only words left unsaid. And frankly, I am used to it now. But I can only confess here that it was painful when you disappeared just like that. I still think about you. And how it is in your nature that you can brighten my day without exerting too much effort. Maybe I was a fool for relying too much on you when things got difficult to bear. Maybe if I just didn’t do that, maybe I wouldn’t have searched for you in other people. I still think about you. And the what could’ve beens. Would it be any different now if you were the one with me? Would it be much easier for me if it was you who I ended up with? Because at some point, I believed that we resonated perfectly. We were always present. Words were just an add-on because your presence alone was enough. At some point I believed that it was the same for you too.  I still think about you. And all the things that you said. And if they were ever sincere. And if you truly understood all the tears and all the curses I showed you – which I only let you have a glimpse of. I still think about you. And how it was too easy for you to just opt for someone who isn’t me. How you made me hope that I’m going to finally encounter what I truly deserve when you told me that it is only right for me to have everything that I truly deserve. I still think about you. And all the things that you did. And if they were ever sincere. This is one of the many things I guess I will never be sure of – if it’s enough that actions need to be sincere. But for a while you made me feel significant, and left, and that’s the one thing that’s very clear.

but i don’t want to be significant, i want to be loved

a.n.n