Saturday, December 31, 2011

nicotine love

It pains me to see how my life
Passes by
Burned to ashes
Slowly by threads and dried leaves
As the lips of a man
Suck my bottom
To take a breath
And puff a smoke to relax
His tensed fingers.

I nearly reached half
When comes a man in Ivy League
Enduring a spectacle
To the left
Took out a menthol.

Without word,
Without notice
A deep inhale—
Three seconds to four
The menthol touched my cinder,
my lip of wanton desire.

His lips of patience drought
As I pass fire
Into his lifeless roll
Happy to be consumed
And to share a love divine.

And as I burn I see him
Release the shards of mint
To the visitor's lip
Turning to ashes
As I too turn without vain.

Down the corner
We burn
From our masters' hand
Who said nothing but smiles
From their eyes emanating
Like our flicker burning.

For love like mine
Is worth the wait.
Without question nor force
Despite the long delay
And the heaves and ho's
In perfect time
In a hopeless place.

Note: I don't smoke. I just find the metaphor fitting.

Friday, December 16, 2011


The greatest explorer on this earth never takes voyages as long as those of the man who descends to the depth of his heart. (Julien Green)

I find my friends' wishlist utter funny because not one of them forgave "everlasting love" in their Christmas wants. Of course, it's quite a challenge for them because they're women and their ovaries have expiration dates. Some of them have already settled in secured relationships but the selected few—who are either in need of strangulation for the kind of blah relationships they are in or in need of plugging a cork on the mouths for the sighing and whining they always belt out—have never let a month without a bawl on Facebook about their star-crossed romances. If not having their boyfriends, my friends are already on the run in finding one. And I, well, I guess the park is too nice to hit a breakneck speed like that.

I've always thought that life is miserable without a partner. My folks have mentioned that life can get a little too sullen when you're aging and finding your space too spacious for yourself and a pooch. But just about that, I think space will work fine for me. Apart from circulating air that's good for the lungs, I needed a lot of "me-time" to think things over. I'm a sober thinker, that's an admission.

Pictures of some of my batchmates already fathers, some classmates cuddling their bundles of joy, sure do the world is creeping up from my back like a chill from Siberia, whispering to my ear that I'm not far from getting old and the twenties is the perfect time to at least go out there and search for your eternal penguin. But that's not just working for me.

And for that, despite the slew of lovelorn hopeless romantics surrouding me or the fairytales that almost all wanted, somehow, I think that even with the wintry chill that everyone uses to prop up an argument to have that someone to cuddle with—people have this knack of using your insecurity against you, eh?—I keep my cool with it.