when the day had come,
i had all the strength
of the days you pushed me away.

and when the clock struck ten,
i had all the strength
of the nights i cried
of the times you lied
of the kisses more dead than alive
of the scars on both our skins
of the bruises that we covered
of the voices turned to screams
and the melody we sung together,
broken as it seems.

so when the day had come,
i had all the strength
of the days you pushed me away.

and when the clock struck ten,
i had all the strength
to let you know i’m walking away.

why do lovers blame love when things get hard?

when they’re the ones who believe in fate
but not in making things work.

and they’re the ones who let destiny take over
when they fail to decide for themselves

love did no wrong.
love made no mistakes.
for love is pure.

it’s the heart that isn’t.

The world suffers

romance-riddled poetry

written by idled,

love-struck hands

Of which

I cannot fathom

Or understand

Is it not tiresome?

What of the warmth

Held in the arms

Of friends?

The ’till-death-do-us-part

Brotherhoods of men?

Ten million wonders

You could exhale

Into ink upon paper—

And you choose

Banal romance?

By god, it’s a sin

eight months

eight months.

eight months have flown by.

yet, there’s still midnights where i find myself dialing your number, hoping you’d pick up. my befallen hopes get repeatedly crushed as it goes straight to voicemail.

there’s still midnights where i leave messages, short clipped ones. i tell you about a meme i saw or something a colleague has said that irked me. i tell you my favorite and my least favorite ones from the new album of the band we used to listen to. i tell you about the weather and my plans of moving away. i tell you how much i miss you. i tell you how i want us back.

and there’s midnights where i just listen to the voice on the recording, thinking how your phone must probably be on airplane mode, like how it always used to be when we were still together. when it was still me. when it was still just me.

you’ve never really been fond of calls. you were more of a message type of person. your phone’s probably on airplane mode and you probably have your arms wrapped around her right now, both of you leaning against the headboard, a thin blanket covering your bodies. a horror film’s on the tv, one she picked even though horror’s not really your genre. you don’t even have to reach for your phone and keep declining, and she won’t have to keep on asking you “who was that?” and you won’t have to come up with an excuse that it was from a wrong number.

there’s still midnights where my persistence wins and i redial and redial hoping you’d pick up even just once and we’d make small talk, as if nothing happened and everything’s still normal.

there’s midnights where i hope you’d pick up and your voice would sound like steel and ice and you’d tell me to stop calling, that it’s been eight months since for fuck’s sake and that you never want to hear from me ever again.

to think about it, you never even bothered to block my number. or my social media accounts. you couldn’t even be bothered to give a decent explanation when i found out about her. when i confronted you how it happened. how you met her in the midst of us. how you ended up with her even when i was still in the picture. as if you were just waiting for me to get out of it, both of your lives. like we never even happened to begin with.

there’s still midnights when my hands shake, my phone screen blurry from tears, my head pounding from the countless shots i’ve taken. midnights where i want to ask you “how?”, how you both are alright and happy and over the moon, while here i am, still stuck and miserable, still hopelessly pining for you-it’s all unfair. how you got the guts to fall for her when you claimed you loved me with your unending professions. how you were able to walk away from what we had because you decided it’s her you wanted to be with. how you didn’t even have to move on from me. how all of these, those eight months seem so easy for the both of you. the hangover the morning after’s what makes me realize i did send you the recordings.

i tried to reach you again the midnight after, but the recording said that the number i have dialed has either been disconnected or no longer in service.

i guess you have finally changed your number.

-at least i know my messages reached you.

-caela m.

“harden not your rage.

no, i do not mean forgive and forget,

but let it melt, let it glaze.

let it soften, let it fractalize,

but not into stone so rugged.

maybe something like a pebble,

quaint for a pocket

yet just enough to keep you running.”

-an excerpt

-caela m.

bridge watchers

it’s just how it was.

and so things ended up the way they did.

we were quite a pair;

what with my impulsiveness and your rationality.

as i took a step back, each time i recognized the danger in your eyes, flickers unleashed.

this rendezvous meant meeting somewhere a little nearer than halfway,

not without leaving a breadcrumb trail of weariness.

see, we didn’t get around to the part of burning bridges-yellow and orange and blue flames standing tall. neither did we try dousing ourselves in gasoline just so it could stay alive, sparks like flirtatious moths attune to life.

all that we’ve resorted to was crossing the bridge and rightly so. for all we ever wanted was to learn the language the city lights spoke upon the ripples delving into atlantis’ reach. there wasn’t a need to get past the platform, plainly standing there already felt right.

this is what those weeks were all for. open-door kisses and treacherous things in the dark.

the laughing fits and slow dancing in your balcony at 2am, acoustics faint on your speakers were just ways we came up with in order to kill time.

things ended up the way they did.

your messages left unopened, my secrets i’ve bared onto your lips and your tongue was the ink you’ve etched yours with on my skin. for a while it meant more than that, we meant more than just a jet’s smoke trail of fleeting stars crash landing upon reality. we could only get to pretend for so long that the crash wouldn’t occur even as we’ve made an agreement that we’d still be alright and remain with an exchange of warm smiles and inviting eyes like the first encounter. but pretending could only sit so well in my chest but it can’t quite counteract this particular feeling rushing with intensity, an outrage that’s only worsened as those exchanges are kept/go on.

so forgive me if i couldn’t keep contact, if all your calls go to voicemail-and i try not to listen to them but ultimately fail. the only compromise i aid to is to not reply.

that’s just how it was.

things ended up the way they did.

the passionate flames surrounded us keeping a close watch so they wouldn’t engulf us

we were just bridge watchers content on not going beyond nor under

-“bridge watchers.”

-caela m.