tw

i need a place to rot and breathe —
a place to spit out pieces of this heart
but i have fallen apart
in all the corners of this room;
each tile,
each yellow wall
reeks of the rain and burial wreaths and
there is no space left to taint,
no grave left to lay
this sorry poem on.

i need a place to rot and breathe,
but my demons have seen me
hold enough burials;
if they pick on my skin tonight
they will see layers of grief,
softly decaying under another.

i remember the first time
anubis laid kisses on my skin.
the second.
the third.
still, i wince in reflex
at the memories,
and maybe if i perfect all these staged funerals,
i will learn to kiss back, with total abandon.

i need a place to rot and breathe,
but t h e s e parts of sadness
don't get written
and my demons, they have pitied me
for holding enough burials
to last a lifetime.

tonight, they bury me.

somewhere, anubis smiles his kindest
and my name in a eulogy haunts
a church's weary walls.

A jumble of words I cannot utter
For their incoherence
I consciously mumble to myself
Struggling to put into writing
The garbled mess of my mind:

Filled with images
Of discarded tires and umbrellas
Of sandwiches and old socks
Withered flowers I bought
For no one in particular
The street where I live
The unbearable sadness of
Losing a dime
My self-referential musings
Of time loops and black holes

All nonsense...

Reality is now this gooey
And icky, unrecognizable
Substance.

I.
This love was made for late-night drives and city lights, left hundreds of miles away. It was made for footsteps, softened by museum floors. It was made for crowded airports — your hand, still finding mine. It was made for sunset-lit kisses, as Intramuros crumbles in the background; the walls and I are both made of brittle bones and curiosities, falling away at your kiss and yet, I felt my purest — my softest whilst the free-fall.

Maybe I did love you more.

II.
Love, it was soft. It was good. It was home. And it was a lie.

And I loved you, I loved you, I loved you — finally with a kind that didn't hurt. And yet, I never knew how to miss you without wanting to rip my heart out.

Maybe I did love you more.

III.
"I wish I didn't hurt you."

"Me too."

And despite you saying it, maybe it was I who loved you more. I know my poems have been saying goodbye way too many times.

Maybe I did love you more.

IV.
But this love, it was made for endings. And I hope you comb through airport seats, looking for my face among strangers. I hope you see my name, fading with dying lights. And I hope you know I'll no longer allow myself to think of us. Tonight, poems won't be mourning you — it'll be mourning my wounds.

Your name is written all over them.

Tonight, your memory will feel the steady flow of my pulse. It'll feel each of my aching breath, in silence that once belonged to us. And tonight, your memory will hold me gently in its arms, for the last time. As if we weren't broken. As if we were still us. And I will slip away, one breath at a time — before the day breaks.

I hope your thoughts no longer haunt me come early, morning light.

And I know I say goodbye way too many times, darling — I say goodbye too many times.

Maybe I did love you more.