and i'm still on call with the boy i like, and i'll still find my way back to you. to your profile, (where it says you're my forest.) my lungs are on fire. you built flowers in my heart just to keep the ache in my ribs. the thorns hurt. the flowers, made no room for air. (i'd like for them to burn, to burn, to turn into smoke and ashes.) where is the forest fire. you still have my heart. i've built a garden for you, but don't you think it's cruel to make yourself the forest. i think i need my lighter, a stick of cigarette. i think i need to burn these feelings to the ground. walk away from the flames. instead, i still tend to the plants in the balcony and you're not home.
there's this boy, whose voice sounds like honey, it's sweet, the kind that sticks to your head and leaves your throat dry. there's this boy whose calloused fingers plucks across the strings without a second thought, like he has the natural talent for it (it's an acquired skill, like any other else) i wondered, briefly, as i listened: does love come easily as this does for him? because i know the answer to it is no. loving me consisted of being pulled from slumber, loving me made it burn, made him see red, loving me was hot searing tears, stingy eyes, messy wrists, calloused hands, broken voices, apologetic whispers and guilt. see, god, there's this boy and he loves me. the kind of love that makes the light filter through the cracks. he loves me like he knows how to hold my hand for the split second he reaches into darkness. he could love me with his eyes closed. this boy, with such electricity flowing through his veins, he could touch me and i'll feel beautiful. enough to write about it, enough to accept i'm a few scribbles of lyrics in his music sheets. just enough to know that every conversation meant him paying attention partly to me and his art. he could make a song about this, he could mix me with paint. because that's what artists do: once they love you, they try to preserve you. there's this boy and i write poetry about him, he gives it back to me as sound. what was once words on a paper, he gave it a voice. because isn't that what every lover wants to be? to felt heard. there's this boy and he's golden, but my love for him is out in the open and i'm afraid, i'm afraid, if i leave it for long as the world finally takes notice of it, it'll spoil like rotten milk. but it spills and it spills and it, spills
i may have been a bad boyfriend, but i'm not a monster. / no, you're right. i've met real merciless individuals since we've split up. this world breeds hate but kindness grows just as wild. i'll always be thankful you've loved me. and i never expected to cry again over you, but i am happy you're healthy and taking care of yourself. i don't need to look after you from afar, anymore. maybe i'm just realizing i'm missing out on you. your kind eyes, your gentleness. it's unmatched. i won't dare to seek that out on anyone, anymore. bur if there's anything i'm grateful for — it's our paths colliding. minahal mo ko'ng tapat. mistakes were made, hurt has happened— but everything bloomed out of love. the gentleness in your eyes never lied, the softness of your voice has always reached me. i have loved you.
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