When The Wind Whispers

Oh, Love, Why Must You Hurt?

i awoke, and the cold, loud, thunderous sky welcomed me. its tears pouring hard as it watered the earth. i couldn't sleep no more, i was far too awake to close my eyes. it was 3:00 am, and as i listened to the sound of rain, i wondered about us.


it's just me, reminiscing.


every Sunday, we would go to church together. i would paint my nails black, wearing my sunday dress, and you in your polo, tucked in those pants. i used to tease you because of your sense of fashion. you looked so 'tito' on your attires, but i loved them anyway.


after the mass, we would buy tulips. and then, we'd walk past the river, and over the bridge where we'd feed the ducks. i remember running with you when they started chasing us. you'd drive us by the beach, where we would listen to the ocean waves, and as we wait by the shore, you'd sing 'rewrite the stars'. and then, we would get ice cream from the shop you used to visit when you were young. you'd order cookies and cream— you said it was my favorite.


we would sit in the middle of the shop and laugh so hard that the shop owner always had to chase us away for disturbing other customers. it became a routine. and before the day ends, you would give me a soft kiss on the forehead while whispering the words, "i love you, Skye."


like the hopeless romantic that i am, i would fall for those words. except that,


i don't like Sunday dresses. or going to the church.


i don't like the shade of black. my favorite flowers weren't tulips, they were daisies.


i was fond of orange, like the sunset, where i loved to stare.


you don't even know my favorite song. but you always sing the same thing, over and over again.


i hated the ocean, i was always scared of getting near it.


i like vanilla, cookies and cream was her favorite flavor, not mine.


but, there was one thing you did that was almost right, almost. because, before the day ends, i loved getting a soft kiss on the forehead from you, as you whisper the words, "i love you, Skye."


like the hopeless romantic i am, i would fall for those words, except that,


my name is not Skye.


it wasn't my name that you spoke of. nor was it my favorite color. you know nothing about me and more about her. but despite the aches and the play pretends, i loved you still, Santino.


oh, love, why must you hurt?


— she was dearly loved ; 1998