It happens when my anxious voice
blossoms and starts venting out poetic realization. It happens when tales are
no longer tales and Saturdays are nights of peculiar daydreaming. It gives an
indication of what I think the best word for okay, and I still am wondering how
I will nurse my shattered ego and restore my confidence back to its original
It happens that the thousand decisions I
made were not equal to the total moments I spent over a period of five hours
every night, studying the collective effort that you did. But with you, I grew
up to be more aware about the pitch of my voice, of my style, of my worth. I
felt how important to know you more, and I was not sure if it did matter to
you. I was a serious one, you were the optimist. I talked about the leaves
falling in an autumn afternoon, but you laughed at the accurateness of my
description. I loved all the ways you spoke to me and your only source of
solace was merely a bottle of superiority of your thoughts.
It happens when it’s difficult to
conclude that all stories end in happy endings, and it is strangely easy to say
that I still am not sure if you ever care about me. I can’t fathom this
hopeless night staring at my own reflection in the mirror, thinking where I
went wrong, but you lied and cheated.
It happens when I am opening a new door
of affection that once belonged to somebody else whom I had chosen before. I am
about to establish a glint of hope that might be as congenial as puppy dogs
like those I owned when I was seven. It all comes when I am about to busy
myself with a lot of things, and train myself engrossing with too much pressure
that even my right hand sores every time I pen your name.
It happens when I do not regret that I
have decided not to trace again those unmet promises and glue them back. It is
just that I am not afraid; I do not want to feel that pain anymore.