Bel esprit

they say alcohol helps manifest your sincerest emotions. i’ve always considered you as an unbinding type, one who lets the city lights pass in a blur of sensations. your liberating aura was so different, so special to me — you were the only woman who could easily clear any fog of stress or any potency of fear. seeing you now with the wine whisking you away into a deep trance, much deeper than hell itself.. i conclude you as a stranger, miserable with eyeliner running down her face along with the tattered tears.

were you always like this? was everything just an act before last night when you broke my heart and cleaved out your own?

my hungry heart seems to be growing stronger with corruption. i feel weak and sad. by the time i’m able to feel the morning sun peak through my eyelashes and tired fingertips, my body will be frail and swollen. my tears will be dried and i will supposedly be a better person.

not another sigh, not another sigh

i’m looking through the glass wall of my windows with faint, golden light reflecting off the polished metal; and my eyes fiercely grasp onto the similar looking buildings right in front of me. my tiny eyebrows furrow, this makes me wonder if i’ll ever be anywhere but here. will i go places, will i ever travel far away, to the lands of my multiple dream countries? it’s a tease, seeing pictures of tiny villages, cities that never sleep, distinct communities where i could visit and just.. being so close to that experience. knowing it probably won’t ever happen.

the few of us accumulate and form a quiet clan. this body of outsiders are fighters from a distant universe, a universe in between right and wrong. we want to enter earth, but this self-directed task was difficult, however much less difficult than it was crucial. each and every one of us were skilled in different areas but deliberately clumped together like an abstract sculpture, we made one whole.

some of us would succeed, most would not. still we are all in some way, a rebellious source of corruption secretly hoping for a way out - a way in.

and me? no, i was probably far from making it.

august winds come and go, flying along the earth’s limitations with summer; and eighty of these moments would reoccur once every 365 days — thirteen of them have already hastily passed with me hardly knowing. i would be gently kissed on the apple of my cheeks with winter’s ceramic lips, where ice flourish baby breaths in the mud of spring. how long would it take for these seasonal romances end? will they keep me forever on my toes, or will they be memories long forgotten on a broken cassette tape?

tomorrow, it will be exactly one year since the day you left us.

in a brand new house is where our family now resides, for indications of your markings was still crumbling in the air my momma breathed. and that’s when realization hit me like the harsh snowfalls in the coldest winters; the transmittable emotion of hurt. it’s.. portable. i carried sorrow for the next several weeks but not only that — sorrow was the one that stuck to me, or more so clung with despair onto my arms, my legs and held tightly.

and even now, the slight thought of you makes my heart waver and i occasionally feel stuck choosing left or right, stuck between colours black and white, stuck at one ‘i-miss-you’ type of pain. miles beyond consolation is where all the crystal clear memories and degrees of not knowing are at, it’s what really hurts.

this may be a perfect neighborhood, i may be surrounded with my perfect circle of friends and i may come home every evening to perfect parents but i’m not where i want to be. you were one of the few that truly knew my worth and dexterity, in fact i trust you were the only one who sincerely believed in me with all the power you had left in your strong yet fragile body. you.. you sacrified practically half your life; devoted your care and love all to me. not my cousins, not other relatives, not even your own children. it was all to your seemingly insignificant grandchild. the one deprived of a parent’s affection since the age of two, the one always blamed for and scolded at by other adults. the useless one.

so this promise is reserved for you and only you: i will make you proud. someday i will accomplish bigger and better things, and on that day i will look up at you with watery eyes in hopes that you’re gleaming back. show me off, tell them you were the one who built me; a strong, tall tower with a beating heart, protecting the memory of her very own grandmother.

you are worth fighting for.

I am one quarter filled with despair but secretly with much more hope. Tell me that I am not too early nor late, that these delicate feelings of yours aren’t gone forever. Dare not say that a lady forgets sooner than her gentleman, that her love has an advanced demise. Unjust I may have been, weak and bitter I may have been, but never untrue to you.