On writing

Very recently, a friend asked if I’ve been doing some writing since I changed jobs at the start of the year.  Truth is, I haven’t. I did write a couple of silly stories early this year, but they sound more like highschool-girl-rants than stories.

I guess I should write again – even if only through blog posts. 🙂

The Last Time We Met
Sometimes I can’t believe it, I’m moving past the feeling
-Arcade Fire

Today, I passed by the corner where you stood during the last time we met. I remember glancing over my shoulder, and upon seeing you, I remember going against the crowd to get to where you are.

I remember your wily smile. I knew what I was about to get myself into, or more appropriately — out of, but the smile made me wonder if you were coming as a friend or as a foe. In that moment, you were at once a trusted ally and a stranger.

I shrugged off the questions running inside my head. It was easy to drown out unstable thoughts in a place as busy as the Grand Central. How funny that we decided to meet in a place of departures and arrivals, where trains easily come and go, where people – friends and strangers alike – disappear with a blink of an eye. It was a place fit for the occasion – for fleeting, fragile things such as time, such as emotions.

I decided to act as nonchalantly as possible but I knew how easy it was for you to read me. But still, I tried albeit helplessly.

As we walked a block or two, my legs loosened up a bit, but inside, I couldn’t shake off the numbing feeling. City noise tried to ram through our awkward silences, which we also tried to fill with off-tangent questions such as “Where and what do you want to eat for dinner?”, “Is pizza ok?”, “I thought you wanted Persian?“

We finally picked a place – half a block away from where we originally planned to eat. We were too lazy to even try.

We settled for what was right in front of us: a run-off-the-mill pizza joint in Manhattan. Had I known, I would have dragged your lazy ass (and mine) to Brooklyn. There we were at the end of the road but my naive heart was still planning would-be dates for the two of us.

Do you remember what we ordered? And do you remember the joke you said about having the bacon to-go? How about the words you didn’t say that broke my heart and the way you said good bye?

What I didn’t tell you – what I wanted to tell you – was that I really wanted to have the bacon to-go – if only to comfort my weary soul long after you’ve gone, or at least fill up my tummy during that cold, cold night.

A void like sadness is, just as much, having a large appetite.

Funny how I remembered all that just by seeing that corner with walls and floors made of marble, leaving me feeling cold and detached. For a split of a second, it felt like time stood still on that seemingly nondescript spot – the very spot where we last met, the starting point of where you broke my heart.


I like things that are different every time.
-Andy Warhol

The television was on. The entire night has been all about sports  – from basketball to MMA to football. You even paused our conversation to say, “Wait for this one!” as one of the stars scored that elusive goal. For a moment, we distracted ourselves. For a moment, I thought I’ve been bro-zoned.

But the very moment you moved next to me, I knew I was wrong.

It was that moment too when the television noise drifted into the background, when the topic shifted from what you like to what I like.

Seeing my shelves lined with books, you started to mention Anne Sexton. I immediately jumped out of my seat to grab her poetry collection and make you read the one I liked best.

There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit…

It was already past midnight. Poetry turned into lullaby. As your gaze crossed mine, I couldn’t help but lean my head against your shoulder, basking in your happy scent. In that moment, I surrendered my lips for your taking, my heart for your breaking.


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