Museo Ng Manunulat

To the writer who wrote my poetry and made my December colder

(Full Title: To the writer who wrote my poetry and made my December colder (This is not a poem, this is the story of us))

I. If I could, I would sacrifice my heart to the sky. I would give these hands and feet to the ground and I would slowly bleed to death as I watch the ground break itself to fly.

II. I am not a metaphor. These words are not a simile as beautiful as the moon or like the ocean waving goodbye to the shore. I am a compass with a broken needle. I am lost.

III. When I met you, I said to myself, "God, if this is really it, tie me up to a nightmare and let me be auctioned to me worst mistake. Bid me to a broken promise and I will bleed every single sin I had just to be rightful to hold your hand."

IV. I never knew Love is a company and I thought I was the best employee for years.

V. You are not a personification of Love. You are not Venus, nor Cupid, nor Athena, nor the dandelions dancing gracefully on a moonlit garden. You are not a drummer skipping a beat to the heartbox whenever you are a rose petal being flown by the wind. You are not a personification of Love.

VI. Love is not a poem breaking words into beautiful disaster. Love is not a poem about you and I meeting each other for the last first time and rhymes were heard from the chirping of the crispy leaves. No, love is not a poetry of feelings. Love is a story of how the butterflies in my rib cage slowly turn their prison into paradise I always wanted to live into

VII. Only, the story isn't about You and I. A keyboard, if only we are. We are but one.

VIII. I've spoken to the stars, I prayed to the sun, I bow down to the moon. I snatched the planets off their orbits, put them to a bracelet and let them be washed by the tides because tides will bring me back to you but instead I learned how to swim.

IX. Sometimes, words cannot fathom what feelings cannot tell.

X. I have this musical sheet full of black and white notes as a symphony of how we met. I have a poem about us, and it had a beautiful ending. I have a ring for you to bring forever back to life. But I never had a story about us.

XI. What I'm trying to say is that I Love You,

XI. But I hate you so,

XI. I'm trying to be normal, but the pain has made me irrational.

XI. I've lost count on how many times I have been lost in words (in a bad way) every time you are around.

XI. I have lost count of the reason to love again (or did I even started counting?)

XI. I have lost count of

XI. I only have one reason as to why I'm afraid on losing everyone

XII. I have this jar of butterflies collected inside the prison when you said Hi and smiled for the first time.

Most of them are still flying around the dandelions.

I know it makes no sense but my heart won't stay with you.