Written by Jelou Galang

I always pictured us out as something really, really beautiful. It might have even gone past poetry.

I’ve played our song for the sixth time today and the ache in my heart felt like it still wanted to stay. I hated myself for painfully devouring every line we used to sing along in our heads together, when your green-streaked earphones connected an ear from the north to an ear from the south; the ears which only heard the sweetest hellos in between dusty classroom walls, and how are yous which landed on the surfaces of vandalized desks. We were such a great thing when combined, and I felt like it gave us the opportunity to hear every pretty, melodious detail this world would ever offer.

I’ve written too much poetry, while waiting for yet another crowded train in today’s dusky afternoon episode. I continued writing the fourth messed up stanza in my head while trying to grab a pole on my right side, and I almost stumbled. It felt bad. Really bad. Not because my bones and muscles couldn’t stand for themselves, but because my bones and muscles and skins and heart made me remember that I was never going to hold you again. My systems were starting to crack once more, so I just struggled to find a seat near me when the train passed the second station, just so I could clearly see through the windows the oneness of hues and contrasting patterns. I wanted to see something that would remind me of the possibility of oneness, again. I didn’t want my cracked systems to erupt, changing into the world’s saddest volcano.

I’ve chased a couple of miles under the pressure of frightening tick-tocks to catch up with the sleepy line of sunset, only to find it saying goodbye without even waiting for the sound of my muddy shoes and incessant attempts to breathe. It was late for the sunset.

It finally hit me. You didn’t wait for me.

You didn’t wait for me maybe because you knew we were a dead end. Maybe because all of the things we crafted were carrying no particular direction, and you were not ready to become a compass to cover all of them. To cover the conflicts. The crazy breakthroughs and breakdowns. The catastrophes. The come-what-mays and carvings of “wait for me” on the other line of a late night conversation.

We never met maybe because maybe we were not really good for each other, after all. Because we both were puzzle pieces in this pretty messed up masterpiece, but the other ends of us were still open. Or maybe because the separation of the north and the south really were alive in ourselves.

I still wonder about so many things. All of the photographs we would have taken, all of the icing we would have foolishly put on our cheeks, all of the words that would have lived at three am, all of the stares we would have gushed about, all of the rants we would have caught for the other to survive another Monday, all of the feelings we would have rescued, so as to save ourselves—these were rounds of possibilities. But I guess the possibilities were not limitless in our case.

I know I’ll still find you in the dark corner of a daydream, with your blue sweater and the yellow umbrella you shared with me in every furious point of July, or maybe while I’m reading the 48th page of a YA novel wherein the main characters are already distancing themselves in the middle of a rainshower—and I promise, I’ll try to be okay.