The Last Love Song

11 Jan

The consequences of having a playlist chock full of Bonnie Tyler, Air Supply, Elton John, and Phil Collins.


“Love songs don’t leave you but lovers often do so let me sing a love song for you.” – Bonnie Tyler, If I Sing You a Love Song

If I write you a love song
will you take the words
bleeding through
paper thin
and fashion a
fairytale around them,
sweeten the fantasy,
escape mundane reality
and immortalize the love
that never saw the
light of


If I play you a love song,
will you commit it to
a fleeting remembrance
and leave it languishing
in paper dreams
or wrap it around
your tongue,
roll the notes
and taste the
longing in between
the melody?


If I sing you a love song
will it be
To ward away the monsters
of day and night
And even those in the
darkest depths of mind
For you to always remember
rather than never forget
For the sweet to overtake the bitter
And for I to live forever
even in melody
of an unfinished
swan song?


Because I shall take
what life I
can get
in a stolen smile,
in fickle fugue,
in the tickle of
in between
the lines of a love song
I wrote
I played
I sang



Making the most of the sadness

19 Sep

One of the few things that was inspired by something I myself have felt another life ago, when I was a wholly different person. Sometimes, I still find her alive and well, staring at me from the toothpaste-speckled surface of my bathroom mirror.


 She hates his back.

 She learns that she hates it even more when it is the only side she can see from the shade of her hair.

 His shadow stretches so far it swallows her own; she can no longer discern where she is – who she is – among the darkness. She vies for the light beyond the smooth expanse of his shoulders – she does not know if it is the sun or if it was his own. She basks in the ambience, and envies it too, as it touches the valley between his neck and shoulder and she thinks so insanely for a moment that she can live there forever someday.

 Turn around, turn around, turn around, she mumbles beneath her breath and for the tiniest of moments, the words seem to reach him and he shifts ever so slightly that she may catch a glimpse of his face. She swears that he turned to look at her but she admits the absurdity of the thought ; his eyes often sweep the room but keep on missing her, as if drawn to all of the space around her, above her, behind her, but never Her.

 She makes a promise on forever that this shall be the end. Out the orbit her feet goes and though she keeps on tripping and falling back into his rhythm, she plods on, the clunking of her feet singing the odes of her victory.

 -another day, she will march even if it means her undoing-
-some day, she will never choke on all of her condemned and captivated devotion-
-one day, she will be free of his gravity-
-today, she-
 She swears that tomorrow, she’ll be able to look forward without stumbling in his footprints and drowning in his shadows. But tomorrow is a whole rotation away and she cannot chase the sun forever.

 So for today she loves his back.

Prompt: Allow

10 Jul

Word count: 362


He saw her tense at the feel of his hand on her shoulder. Tactfully, he withdrew his touch, cursing inwardly all her inhibitions which have done nothing but drive him up the wall.

He wanted her, plain and simple.

The first time he met her, she gave a passing glance and never even waited to see if he would reciprocate. No matter, she’s insignificant, he thought at the time.

The next time they met was an accident. For a few glorious moments, the world was theirs alone. Time flowed around them and between them and she glided away, butterfly flying to thr next blossom.

From then on, it was push and pull and he woke up one day, not knowing how it happened – how he allowed it – yet feeling it deep within his bones, that she had become necessary.

He found himself observing her more closely than ever, wondering how the sun gleamed from her smile, how delicate her pale skin was that he feared breaking it with a whisper, how her eyes – oh those eyes – drew others to her even when they knew that too much adoration smothered (and she fled most of the time). She was illumination and all the darkness wanted, desired was to capture her.

He knew better though. She seemed so impervious to corruption but it was because she kept everyone at bay. She would hold his hand and her hand and everyone else’s hand like they were all special. She would smile at him like she would a baby or a dog, indulgently but never in the same way he has come to smile at her.

He has started the war, beginning with little touches and words and looks and he knew she has felt the onslaught. He could feel the barriers snapping up even as she allowed (and dare he say encouraged?) the changes.

He will not drown her though. He will lose if he does so he won’t. So when she tenses at his hand on her back, he removes the offending appendage. He would allow her this one concession. After all, he planned on having her in the end.

Prompt: Abandon

4 Feb

Word count: 224

She feared it more than anything.

She was frightened of receiving it. All her safe and sound and sensible lonely life, she built these walls to keep her safe. A few brave souls dared to rattle the cage (after all, she did call to them and let them) but none have breached her boundaries. She wanted her safety. The resulting loneliness? Not so much.

The truth was, what she feared more than anything, what kept her up on sleepless nights of fervent prayer and vigil, was the possibility that it would come from her. Really, such recklessness, such freedom granted by some outside power is disconcerting at best – she knew how to tame it well – but for such abandon to come from her would be devastating.

She knew it would claw her from inside, carve grooves and channels beneath her skin until her soul and body become such a poor fit. Then she would search a new body to inhabit, perhaps a new face or a different name, even if the heart remained the same. And she would be forever torn, the snail unable to let go of its old shell yet dying, desperate to move in its knew home.

And the most frightening part, she decided, was that while she was ruminating all this in her head, it has already begun.

Let me know what you think about this foray into new territory. :)

Author’s Note 1

4 Feb

Finally, a tangible result of my writing resolutions this year! After years of battling with fickle writing muses and misplaced bursts of inspiration, it is time for desperate measures. Namely, the use of writing prompts to make me write. :)) 

Also, I swore that I’d try something somewhat outside my comfort zone. So from today, the posts labeled with “Prompt” are a part of loosely-connected drabbles-shortstories-conversations-poems-whatnot about the pangs and joys of falling (and tripping) into love. 

I haven’t named the characters though. Still not ready for that big step. :))

Koi no Yokan

2 Jan

And I’m back! Whew, was 2012 the wildest year yet or what? I got my college diploma, passed the board exams, and I’m teaching now in the very same university. I admit, I haven’t had much time to do some blog-hopping and spamming but I’d I’m announcing that 2013 is my blogging year! I’ll try to roll out posts once a week (time to unearth all those little snippets wasting away in the back pages of my notebooks!) and I’ll definitely revisit all those dear bloggers who have been of much support in the past.

Taking story prompts from the weirdest places on the internet. Cheers, we foolish romanticists. ;)

Koi no Yokan (Japanese):

The sense one can have upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love. Differs from “love at first sight” as it does not imply that the feeling of love exists, only the knowledge that a future love is inevitable.


He knew the end before it even began.

He searches for the right answers to questions that have not yet been asked. Is it in her hair, her eyes, the gentle slope of her shoulder, the valley of her neck, or her secret smiles that told him of a story in a language he has not yet learned but eventually will? Really, there is nothing special about her that should even warrant his attention. He knows this and sees this and feels this and still, he cannot escape the horizon.

He attempts to decipher the mysteries between the spaces of her fingers, the secret language in the way she tucks her hair behind her ear and kneads others’ hands when she is idle – but he does not find any resolution there. How can she own a part of his future when he himself can scarcely even see it?

He finds no answers. What he has is the knowledge of before and of before that and of after everything and of the present which he takes out and turns over and over and under in his hands until they’re red raw and bleeding dry. All he has is memory.

There was the jolt, the jump, and then there was the quiet resolution, the settling of a heavy weight beneath his breast which he carries willingly – it reminds him of the presence of something he has waited for all of his life. He bears not a white flag that speaks of his defeat but more of a relief that he has found her. Or that she found him. It is a quiet sort of happiness, the kind that he finds in a baby’s laugh, in ice cream and summer nights, in cold mornings with blankets and hot chocolate and in her eyes, in the breaths she take, in her life and her and everything-

There are no fireworks, no fanfare. There is no uncontrolled hurtling into space and cataclysmic collision. Rather, it was a falling into step into an orbit that he knew of even before his time on earth. There is the inevitability, a tugging on his heartstrings that would have brought him to his knees once upon another time, when he was a different man with a different face and a different heart. Now, it keeps him afloat in sleepless, pitiless nights, when all he has is memory to keep his sanity in check.

She asks him about the new knowledge brimming behind his changed eyes and for the barest of moments he considers letting her in on the secret. But he keeps the moment to himself, waiting for the time when the irony will catch up with him and sweep him off his feet. He hopes to fall in with her when it happens.

He wonders when was the exact moment he knew he would eventually come to love her.

Frühlingshaft, Herbstlich

25 Sep

The autumn melancholia. Bow.


When I was sixteen, I fell madly in love. I didn’t know his face, the voice, or the name but I was sure that he was the One, that elusive existence that was often glorified in all types of prose and speech. The first time we meet will be cataclysmic, a collision of worlds and an inevitable fall into each other like how love is always portrayed in those Harlequin novels my mother keeps in her dresser drawer. He would tower over me even when I’m in my 3-inch heels. He would bring me an iris or a sunflower – never the gaudy bouquets I strangely detest – without me telling him that they’re my favorite ones. I’d be necessary to him like how I desperately need him. We’d be two halves of a whole, nary a crooked line or a stray thread in the scarlet strings of fate. We’d fight sometimes, I’d run in the rain to the direction of away, and he’ll chase me to the end of ends, and everything will be perfect again. His bass voice will sneak in the cracks in my walls – charge through the defenses and keep me at his mercy. He’d smell like mine, a scent that will tangle in my heartstrings and tug at all the light and darkness playing in between the cracks of my existence. His touch would be the electric feel. I waited on tenterhooks for the One to sweep me off my feet and take me away on his white steed to happy ever after. It took me awhile to realize that he would only be a memory that will never exist.

When I was twenty, I fell quietly in love. He wasn’t outrageously handsome to attract throngs of would-be lovers nor hideously unattractive like the plague. He was of quiet strength – I could walk beside him without fear of being smothered. He waged no battle with my thoughts; instead, he stayed at the periphery of my consciousness. We talked of the usual mundane topics, his voice a tenor that softly caressed all the little needy voices in my head – the roaring inside my mind was quiet for a while. The first meeting was forgettable, the second with a little more conversation, and the next few ones not different from the usual getting-to-know stage of friendship. The first time he held my hand, it was to keep me from stumbling over my footsteps. I was never a klutz nor gentle nor anything a shy maiden is supposed to embody but I was everything that and more around him. It was an easy relationship, none of that psychosadistic drama of some immaculate man and all his shades of gray which looked suspiciously black to me. I went on with life without resting on his every touch, every word, every instance of connection that would inevitably bring us closer. He was flesh and blood – if I dug my fingernails deep enough to reach his secret places, he’d bleed. He was as fact as the Mondays that come after Sundays and as real as the thumping rhythm of a heart that would soon find what it has lost.

It was one of those beautiful moments when you have a thousand and one reasons to like reality more than any fantasy.


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