Writer's Block

Bryan / 22 / Davao, PH

[loverarian]

Pangaea

Today, you held my hand as we watched the sun slowly dying from a distance. "Tell me more," I begged. It was one of those days where you replicated Pangaea on my skin. "You see, we came from a single continent," you began. "Slowly, we began moving to different directions, separating from what was once whole." I looked at you, carefully memorizing your face. "We're like that supercontinent," you whispered. "But I don't want us to be one," I said. "I don't want to drift away. I want to us to stay."

You stopped tracing your fingers. The sun finally set on the horizon. Suddenly, you leaned towards me and planted a kiss on my forehead. "I'm sorry, but we can't," you said as you wiped the tears across my face.

Today, you held my hand for the last time.

I realized we were not the Pangaea. I was.

Maybe that's the reason why you left.

[loverarian]

All I want is to hold your hand. To feel every inch of your skin, slowly tracing the unique imprints on your palms and fingers. The feeling of warmth slowly crawling through every vein.

Your hands, they have their own story. There might be other hand you’ve held; other skins you’ve felt. But I’ve always wanted to be a part of it.

I want to be the one who holds your hand when nobody else wants to.

[loverarian]

But we’re much like holograms. You’re here and I’m there. But the distance between us is unpenetrable and cannot be denied. Even when we’re inches from each other, I can still feel the void.

Wherever you are, come back home soon.

[loverarian]

My life is an open book. I am the kind of person who writes about things. Be it a surge of childhood memories, or the tingling sensation of happiness. The screaming frustrations and the unrelenting pain of romance can also paint words on my canvas. I find pleasure in transcribing the emotions found within the abyss of my subconscious. It feels like letting go of a long-carried load that could possibly break my spine. I feel freedom. I feel lightness.

Maybe, if you’ll dig deeper, you’ll be my most avid reader. I’ll be yor best seller. Stuck within the confines of my words are the mysteries waiting to be told. Gone are the heaviness of doubts. Gone are the midnight frustrations.

Yes, you might be hooked with the preface. But if you keep on reading, I swear you’ll realize that you are every chapter in between.

[loverarian]

I want to be the man who writes 2 a.m. poetry about you. The kind of poetry that lets the candle burn and the cicadas sing.

We are nothing but letters, carefully handrcafted to be come words. As we scramble our way, we inhale the symptoms of emotions that will linger. In an intsant, we became a sentence.

And God, yes. In a heartbeat of commas and periods, we become a paragraph; passionately intertwined with each other. Forever giving meaning to something that was once unheard of.

I want to be the poet. I want you to be my poetry.

[loverarian]

The shadows that lurk at night

You told me “Close your eyes and think of happy thoughts. Tell me what you see.”

I see the 2 a.m. conversations, the laughter that we shared, and the frustrations that kept us awake at night. That one evening when we finally crossed the bridge together.

I see you every single time.

[loverarian]

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If you gave me a chance I would take it It's a shot in the dark but I'll make it Know with all of your heart, you can't shake me When I am with you, there's no place I'd rather be