Tuesday, September 20, 2005
In the shadow of many happy memories

Can it happen? An excess of romantic narrative that empties all rational thought and results in this big, gaping hole where words once were? Is it possible?

Have I truly found the cure for writing?

Saturday, September 17, 2005
Across the heavens, a love story

"Never before has the sound of thunder
etched awe in the echoes of its wake, so gently
like a wave, meek and sweet, as it
unrolled from sea to shore."

Once upon a time, empyrean crumbled. My night skies were filled with nothing but punctured seas of black, fragments of lunar tapestries and the flicker of dead stars.

Then he came along. He made me want to walk in the rain. He explained to me how thunder traveled great distances. He had me watching lightning storms.

We lived happily ever after. :)

backspaced at 04:48 pm

Twice as bright as the moon, five times as hot as the sun*

When a lightning bolt* superheats the air, it produces a shock wave; we call the resulting sound thunder... Yes, yes... Norse god Thor sending a message... The sky splitting in two... Heaven creaking open its gates... I still listen.

Probably because I know that he hears it, too.

backspaced at 05:40 am

Thursday, September 08, 2005
To my bespectacled prince

If you're reading this, I'm probably beside you right now, showing you the other side of my world... :)

See this page? This is our page. That picture on the right? That's us.

(Smile and squeeze my hand before proceeding.)

This is all going to seem new. I hope you learn to love it like I do.

backspaced at 04:19 pm

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

He wore good-boy polos and eyeglasses. He blushed and stammered when we first talked. His hands went clammy whenever I was around (according to people who were with him). He tore open candy wrappers for me. He liked the color green. He taught me how to listen to thunder.

He introduced me to his mother. He hovered close when guys approached me. He rescued my cellphone from a tricycle driver. He walked in the rain and through ricefields with me. He made me feel like a prom queen one unforgettable night. He handed me a cold glass of lemonade without my having to tell him I was thirsty.

He beat me at Chess and, one time, at Scrabble (with help from my brother). He gave me flowers (others had always given me books). He wrote me a song. He made a rain stick for me. He held my hand when my hand needed holding. He kissed me without permission (and I liked it).

He loved me just when I had almost given up on love.

Dead-end men

Dead-end men are boys pretending to be men

who take your hand inside cinemahouses,
       feigning cold, or
              curiosity -
                         about a ring or bracelet you're wearing

who tell you something terribly important
       through a text message

who can't take a hint if it hit them -
                                                hard between their legs. 

backspaced at 09:51 pm

Monday, July 25, 2005


I will never again see fingers strumming guitar strings
without seeing a picture of you, singing, and me, staring,
as both song and the sounds of the night surround us, seeping
into every empty space, breaking
and unbreaking my heart in a dozen different ways.

I will never again feel the post-Christmas chill
against bare legs in cutoff shorts, without feeling that
tingle, your gaze on mine
as you take my hand, all thoughts travelling
to where your skin meets my skin, and knowing
that knowledge is not enough.

(When was it ever enough?)


I bow and you follow. We utter
prayers punctuated by patient obedience, perfunctory
at best, pretenseful
at worst. We say Amen
but we don't let go.

Defenses dissolve, dismissed
as suddenly as they were summoned:
We kiss.
And the air leaves our lungs,

lifting us into a lull

                            filled with something almost akin to love.

backspaced at 11:25 pm

Thursday, July 21, 2005

A lengthy introduction is unnecessary.

This blog contains a love story. Nothing extraordinary, nothing fancy, but certainly everything most people dream about.

It has neither beginning nor end, only moments caught in between.
It has neither past nor promises, only memories that survived both time and love's passing.

Para sa lahat ng minahal ko.

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

<< January 2018 >>
Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri Sat
 01 02 03 04 05 06
07 08 09 10 11 12 13
14 15 16 17 18 19 20
21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31

If you want to be updated on this weblog Enter your email here:

Because creativity is inspired, not lifted:

Creative Commons License

This weblog is protected by a Creative Commons License.

Listed on Philippine Sites, Rice Bowl Journals and Blogwise.

Images hosted by Photobucket.

rss feed

Copyright © 2004
by backspaced™