Please don’t gaze into my eyes when your hand slips into mine

Just because I look forward to hearing about your day, 

doesn’t mean I love you, it doesn’t mean I’ll stay,

and I might eagerly tell you what’s on my mind, 

and ask for your new book finds,

but don’t you get attached with me for that, 

because I really don’t love you, 

and I really don’t want you to stay. 

Ignore how much I laugh when I’m with you, it’s a natural response to your retardedness, 

and obviously I never wait for your invitations to come over, and I never look forward to seeing your face. 

So please don’t gaze into my eyes when your hand slips into mine, 

and don’t call me cute when I call your big eyes so fine, 

and certainly don’t watch me as I fall asleep, because I definitely don’t watch you mumble at sunrise.

favorite sweater

Not every ending has to be devastating to have been meaningful. Some chapters close quietly, making space for what’s ahead. 

Like that favorite sweater of mine. I would wear it religiously, the last item to reluctantly enter the laundry bag and the first one eagerly retrieved. Every new addition in my life would first be vetted by the sweater: Would it complement the sweater’s subtle hue? Did the textures harmonize? Could the styles coexist? If not, there would be no space for it. 

But then that sweater slowly but surely started to outgrow me. Imperceptibly at first, like a threat or two loosening. The shoulders that once fit so snugly started hanging awkwardly. The fabric that once warmed me began to feel inadequate. I was still cold. I didn’t suddenly dislike it, but gradually recognized it hadn’t quite fit right for a while.

Can I repurpose the sweater? It can’t warm my heart, but it can still warm my fingers or serve as a beautiful headband! Putting the sweater away feels more natural than devastating, because I’m not throwing it away, just letting it fulfil me in different ways. 

The sweater, like our relationship, brought us great joy in its season. And that’s perhaps the most graceful truth about endings…  not that they failed but that they completed what they were meant to do. The warmth we needed then isn’t the warmth we need now. In this quiet aftermath, there is no emptiness but only clarity. And like the ending of that movie, I will always love you, and you will always love me. 

On consciousness

As humans, we are so lucky to be conscious. To have highly complex ways to think and feel, to sit somewhere and understand exactly what it feels like to experience that particular moment. Consciousness is one of our most intimate and yet mysterious gifts. 

We receive sensory input and process it, having our own point of view to the world. That makes us sentient, and nothing very different from bacteria who can also sense the world and react to it. But our consciousness lets us perceive the world, then reflect upon our perceptions. Like me right now: using my consciousness to contemplate consciousness. 

I like how a moment can become textured because of our awareness of it. I try to remind myself to be present, to live in the moment, because my awareness and consciousness is a beautiful beautiful gift that lets me experience the depth of an experience unbound by time and space. 

Alas why should I?

I watch the waves hit stairs the same way my heart thumped - loud, crashing, irregular - 

as I realize I might be the bad one. 

If bad means craving to be seen, to love, to see, 

to be heard, to seize, to hear. 

If bad means wanting to hold someone’s hand and feel like the world has stopped moving, 

To connect with someone’s soul and see them for who they are,

and for them to see you as who you are,

Then indeed I am sorry for being bad. 

I’m sorry for wanting to take someone to my secret place, for wanting to be taken to theirs, 

for not fearing us growing apart — alas why should I? 

A perfect relationship does not need to be forever, if you simply cherish all the moments you have together. 

I’ll always love you, best friend

You were the best thing that happened to me in these years and I will always be grateful to you. Thank you for all the memories and the love. I love you always and will keep you in my heart. I’m one call away if you ever need anything. 

Bungu

the kind of love I want

I want to be seen, to be told that my eyes are dreamy, 

and that my smile is loved because it’s so goofy, 

and that my thoughts are wonderful to listen to 

even though they are not concise, 

I want to be loved and to be given a surprise, 

showing up to my door and telling me you’re mine, 

that’s the way I want to be loved. 

I want to be treasured and I want to treasure in return, 

I want to have all the fun in the world, 

yet I want that seriousness and depth in our bond, 

I want our souls to be together, to be strong. 

I don’t want to feel like I am not seen. 

Like I am not someone’s dream. 

Like I don’t deserved to be heard if my thoughts are not expressed clean. 

In one lifetime, surely this is something I can experience? 

My life can feel insanely rosy and blinding with radiance? 

My love would make someone feel treasured, not obsessed over? 

We could talk for hours as we rest on each other’s shoulders? 

Maybe what I want is unrealistic. Maybe it’s rare. 

Am I willing to take a chance in case it’s there? 

simply perfect

Bottles in backpacks, shoelaces undone 

stargazing despite the pollution 

it doesn’t matter if you have different eyes 

if what you see is equivalent. 

Splaying out striped balls, 

watching in case your friend falls,

without regret you open up, you lower all your walls. 

For what is life if you don’t live it in glory? 

Why have a book without a story? 

The price of feeling free is following your heart, 

but that requires knowing what your heart wants. 

Things can always go wrong. It is unlike life to be simply right. 

Yet no one feels tricked by it, 

because life can still be perfect. 

my cupped hands

Every now and then I bring you up in fondness, 

the things you taught me, the stories you shared, 

how you taught me to not rhyme 

and to walk on the ground with my feet bare. 

I remember the nights I would cry during dinner,

my terrible recitation of multiplication tables... 

I remember your stern gaze when I would talk back at Ma, 

the softness in your eyes when we would go out for walks, 

I remember your cheerful voice calling for me at your return, 

the way you praised my omelettes even though they always burned.

But sometimes I forget your face. I have to strain 

to remember the creases that caressed your forehead 

and the tinge of yellow in your cornea faint. 

I can't remember the way your voice sounded 

even though I remember the exact words, 

and sometimes I'm scared 

that I'm wrong about that too.

I can hear the "burrah!" but not your dance, 

the way you said "I love you" but not your demands... 

I worry that your memories flow like water through my cupped hands.