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She would look away and I would look at her.


She would talk incessantly about how things were, her petty concerns, her mundane thoughts. Her laughter would ring inside the coffee shop. I would chastise her with crossed eyebrows. As always, she would ignore me and start ripping me with her sneering laugh. She would breathe life into uneventful things. She would fire up any boring topic. She would never take me seriously. Neither would l, seemingly. I would look at her lovingly when she turns to talk to her friends. I would analyze every strand of her hair, every squint of her eyes, every gesture, hoping she wouldn’t notice me admiring both her perfection and imperfection.

She would share her woes, her angst. I would either starve or feed her angst. I would listen to her sadness. Hoping that I, through listening, would alleviate her misery. I could only share my shoulder. I could only share an extra unused handkerchief, which I would carefully tuck inside my pocket every day, hoping its size could contain the outpour of emotions being blown to it. I would joke around, making a fool of myself, just so I can see the smile behind the tears. I would give anything to see her smile. She will tell me about her admirers and who she likes. I would envy them in secret. I would feel jealous. I would feel her pain. She would not feel mine.

We would try out every place where there is food, from polluted streets to posh overrated restaurants. We would pretend to be food critiques and make up stories. I would sip expensive coffee with her, even if it would mean having to endure eating pancit canton for days, until my urine smells like coffee, until I palpitate during sleepless nights. I would save up for movies, Googling the synopsis so I won’t appear idiotic. She would fall in love with the movie star. I would fall in love with her.

She would tell me more about her life. I would compare notes about mine. She would widen the abyss that separates me from loving her. She would make me realize that I can only love her in silence. I would make that painful resolution that I cannot step up for her. I am too afraid of the consequences and rejection. I will regret not having enough courage to tell her she is the world to me. I can only watch her from afar.

Yes, I am secretly in love with her.

***
Written for a friend who loves in secret

Eyes

In your eyes I see the world in caricature
In your eyes I enamour the grandure of the skyline
In your eyes I hear notes, rests, and time signatures
Carefully strewn together in a miniscule orchestra
In your eyes I absorb colors in unbelievable radiance
I see a whole new dimension
A whole new meaning
All in stark simplicity
I see all these
As I tread on thin glass
As i falsely hope

Tell me

What do I have to do?

Do I have to beg
Or walk a hundred miles
Do I have to pray
To the gods of other tribes

Do I have to be
Like sinless saints
Do I need to learn
A few more trades

What do I have to do?

Do I lie in wait
A few more years
Do I have to see
More pain and glee

Do I speak in prose
Or riddled words
Do I sing more songs
Or write more notes

Do I have to wear
That phony smile
Do I have to play
That worthless part

Tell me. What do I have to do?

On Love

Love exists in different vantage points
Never on the same page
Never viewed on the same lens

Some love stories are nestled in one’s comfort zone
Almost always on that all too familiar lane
Nudging towards the equilibrium

Some love stories breathe fire and spontaneity
Daring to live dangerously and love instinctively
As if living and loving rest on their last hour

Some love stories harbor on the bright and striking subset of compatibility
Shunning other parts of their love’s Venn diagram
Basking gloriously inside that subset

Some love stories though short-lived are resurrected in the mind
Playfully reliving every moment, retrieving every known feeling
Pausing on some favorite frames

Some love stories can be like lines and curves
Seeing each other, but can never cross
Their eyes have seen how painfully asymptotic love can be

Some love stories are just that
A story with a bland denouement
And nothing more