Saturday, December 30, 2017

for rent

Some things just need to be out there, literally, like a piece of wood, hanging by the gate, written on it: For Rent.

It’s as if I never understood the aftermath. Or maybe I do, I just wanted not to understand them. The light by his room would sometimes hurt in those few seconds when I would pass by. Sometimes, they charge with hope. But I couldn’t be anywhere stable. How can a faint light stir so much oscillation, waves thrashing me here and there, in those few seconds, few steps, where I’m thrown into, before I turn my head back to the street, and notice that the air has been dropping colder by the night.

At first, I didn’t understand. In my defense, he was not short of spinning strings. And I was the hapless fly who thought they were fairytales, when after all, they were cobwebs. I couldn’t make sense of what happened and what his promises were for. If there was any indication of intention in it. Or illusion. The chill of December air compounds the linger and confusion.

It wasn’t until later when the Universe, I guess too tired of and pissed at my stupidity, blatantly gave me a sign. You know, whether it’s divine intervention or cosmic coincidence, there will always be those things that will hold themselves out there. That need to be just out there. Waiting for you to grasp them. In all their material presence. In all their perceptibility. To strike you the coup de grĂ¢ce. To prepare you for the bleeding you ever deny yourself, because you twist the tourniquet just a little bit tighter, when you feel your hurt is becoming far stronger than your hope.

The renovated room where we romped for hours is too big for one man. Now the entire house is leased out. I passed by and shuddered for a while when the letters on the plank read, For Rent.

The cold went to chilling. The stars hid behind the midnight rain clouds. The tourniquet gave way.

For Rent. Wasn’t that you to begin with? You never were the owner. Five hours into that Wednesday night. Prostituting your soul to get into his heart. And the price you paid was the imagination that dragged you up Mayon St, left to Roxas St, and down to Iriga. Just to see if the light by the window is lit. If he is gallivanting with others, if he is holding on, or if he is entirely the bug that eats hapless flies. For Rent. You were never his; and he, not yours. Just bodies dancing in bed until the burning dawn cast light on the lies that sate.

Never had two words been so emancipating. After weeks of slugfest and self-denials, there I was, staring point blank at truth. He isn’t love. Just a hand-me-down for the night. The darkest before the dawn. And God how I loved for weeks to fumble in his darkness, until the Universe had it enough of my overreacting stupidity, that His pity descended to hate: Here you go. A prophetic piece of log.

The last time I checked, he was some three to four miles away. I don’t know what he’s up to. Maybe leasing out his space. Without spelling it out. For hapless flies. I hope the Universe doesn’t get tired from saving unfortunate bugs and writing down For Rent on a piece of log.

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