*verdad

Under the comfort of a ragged blanket she touched herself.

For three long months she slept alone on a bed made for two, oftentimes with tears in her eyes. Each night, her thoughts courted with the agony driven by the hasty transition from past to present, like an unforeseen typhoon.

Today she decided she has had enough. “I deserve to be happy,” she tried to convince herself. With all the courage she can muster, she wore her best clothes and put on the smile that was reserved for someone else. She was uncertain. But she was determined.

The rendezvous was thirty minutes away. She looked out the cab’s window and fondled with the bracelet she never wore. It was a gift, back when no such rendezvous as this one would have had to be made. Her loneliness hampered against her judgment that ultimately failed in rationality. But she would look at the driver every now and then, battling with hesitation in what she was about to do. But the ice in her heart sears with the desire to be melted away like frozen butter on a burning pan. She wondered if a sense of renewed tactility would be the heat that might light a fire in her heart again. She wanted to find out.

In the corner of two streets that formed a cross, she waited for the guy she only met thirty days ago. She fidgeted with her pony tail and walked in little circles. He arrived with the failure of concealing the nervous look on his face, the same look the mirror gave her earlier today. He walked swiftly towards her, but kept his head down and his eyes on his feet. She stood in the middle of one of the circles she drew with her steps. She stood there, motionless, emotionless.

He led her to walk and she followed. Her steps were carried by the fortitude of tucking away the past into an eternal sleep. They walked together but they were not side by side. One was always ahead and the other, behind. She didn’t mind. She gazed at the people in the street, the lady selling cigarette by the stick, the traffic enforcer who was enjoying the lady’s cigarette, the students who laughed profusely at a sick joke. She wondered where she was in this sea of people.

And then there it stood, a building that used to be green.

He led her to walk and she followed. 307 were the numbers mounted on the door. The room was cramp and looked as if it had been used one too many times before. The restroom was no different from a toilet in one of those malls. The queen-sized bed supported a mattress that was covered with plastic which peeked from under the un-tucked bedsheet.

He sat on the bed and she followed. He spoke of things she did not take interest in. When he was finally done, he turned off the lights and pecked on her lips. She closed her eyes and fiddled with the thought of finally detaching herself from what is already history. She started playing the game.

She thought that if she could displace the longing she still had flowing endlessly like a river in her heart, she could finally sway the loneliness that said hello each passing day. She thought that she could make her puppet move with no strings attached. But the four corners of that room, along with its dusty cracks and holes, were a testament to the indubitable fact that not even the strongest intensity of lust could overpower the love she still felt for the one that got away. With every kiss she gave, she waited for the taste of his lips. Every caress that ran down her body only led her to search for the warmth of his. She played with the beads on her bracelet upon realizing what she had just done.

She went home and sat on her bed, contemplating on the afternoon’s events. She wanted to find out. And now that she had, she wished to have never been consumed by desperate curiosity.

She lay down on her bed with eyes wide open as tears of self-disgust cascaded through her cheeks.

She pulled her ragged blanket up over her head and hid from the world.

He knocked and hoped no one would answer.

He reeked of cheap perfume and waited outside her house on a rainy evening. He stared at the gate and wondered who has been here in his place, opening the gate for her, watching the flowers beside it grow. On his right hand, he held a bag that contained three jars of candy and a smaller bag of spice, as she had asked him to bring her some upon his arrival. His left formed a fist - his fingernails dug deep into his palm. He thought it would slow down his heartbeat. But his pulse only pounded even more as her mother opened the door and called out her name. He crossed the threshold where he was welcomed by her dogs that no longer knew who he was or what he was doing here. He has been away far too long.

While the television set was right where it used to be, and the blue dining table still stood against the blank, beige wall, this was a visit made under a different circumstance. While the furniture remained the same, everything else was not without change. There, in an unaltered state of being, was an eerie atmosphere that did not welcome his presence.

His knees trembled at the sound of her footsteps against the wooden staircase. He heard them too many times before. But tonight, as her dogs barked at the feet of a visiting stranger, her footsteps danced to a different beat. The thugs and thumps were slow and eternal. It was the beat he never wanted to hear.

She emerged from the footsteps and looked at him in a way he could not decipher. He dared not look back. He wore a woolen shirt to keep the cold outside. However warm it kept his outsides, his heart froze like ice age in summer. He perspired relentless, cold sweat.

He held up his right hand to break the distance between them. He handed over the candies and spice like it was a business transaction, except nothing was exchanged.

No distance was broken.

As he finally glanced when he was about to say goodbye, he saw her as he remembers her by his side. She wore her boy shorts the way she always did and pulled her tank top so that he could see the belly that he missed.

He crumbled at the distance they kept.

The deal was made, goods delivered. He imagined the look on her face as she blows and sips to ease the spice on her tongue. He hoped she liked the candy he brought.

She walked back upstairs, repeating the steps she made with the same beat.

He said goodbye to her mother and walked away. Out the door. Out the gate. Into the rain that mingled with his thoughts. He walked on.

He held no candy in his hands.

The spotlight has lost its heat. Even when the flash of incandescent rays slices into the night, it still feels cold and I can sense my bones going rigid. As I sleep, I shrug away the creeping hand of seclusion while I am still able. I roll myself like a contortionist or a tongue-knotted stem of cherry to utilize whatever body heat is left in me. I wake up dreamless and get out of bed. I go on living life’s deceptive tricks that turn us into robots in an endless routine of playing roles. But in between these little scenes, I still find myself in dear-old-I-love-life moments. And somehow, that keeps me going.

They say part of keeping good memories is having the courage to miss those moments. And forever, there will be a little bit of longing hidden away in my pocket and it rests just beside those gloomy clouds before the thunderstorm. But I had to be a phoenix and rise from the ashes which you reduced me into. While these new wings are stronger, I see no place to perch on since you’ve been gone. You may call me your foundling phoenix.

Everyday I walk along and across roads and halls and pavements. People glance once in a while but all I see is an unfamiliar hospitality, like such gesture is a national mandate for Filipinos or schoolmates or people of the same citizenship. I put my earphones on and play my least favorite song and try to watch the world as it turns. It turns slowly. It opens up slowly. And while my playlist shuffles my music, I see different notes and melodies in these people’s eyes. Many stories are told by their clothing and companion. As if drifting into a massive black hole, I fall oblivious to time, hypnotized in a continuum of passersby who has written stories in the book across that dimming sky. In the existence of these profiled strangers, I forget my own. But my music is still playing and my phoenix-wings are still burning its scarlet plumage, hungry, in heat for another flight across time and space and endless skies. No one is there to see, or even notice.

I see everything in wide angles and beyond silver screen frames. Would you care to take a look at me? Listen to the songs I hate, and hate them too. Hold my hand when I have no pen to pour out the weight I have inside. Touch me when I feel too calm and lifeless. The stories I have seen has diminished me into a hard block of ice, and all i could do is see. Melt me.

I am your wallflower.

I want to feel infinite too.