Last night, I was kissing you. I thought that there should be a place for where I write down all the single instances when I kissed you and I wanted to remember. Because I want to remember.
 

You tell me secrets, and I call them stupid. Because I couldn’t find the words to tell you how much I appreciate the tiny details of your everyday, hearing about the nuances of your 9-5 makes me smile.
 

In my head, a Jens Lekman song was playing, I was thinking of strawberries and chocolate revel bars. Outside, there was a man sitting on the sidewalk at Pajo, making hissing, “come over here” sounds to the kittens on the street. I kiss you, and I imagine the taste of ice cream, the corner of your mouth forming a smile.
 

I smile at the thought that I had never noticed your dimples until after months I had known you. Forgive me for I had always noticed your teeth, or the way “O”s and the schwa sound roll in your lips.I like the way hair gets caught on the stubble in your chin.
 

I guess I should have told you: I love the way the skin on your collarbones smell, and the lingering smell on your left shoulder. Sometimes, when I kiss you I come up with lists of things which I find endearing, but I am afraid such declarations may seem reckless. This is as much as I can do, for calculated recklessness.

I hope you could forgive me for writing this down, but I have been told that forgetfulness is one of my worst traits. I also believe that journals must be intimate and for the forgetful.
 

I write this letter for you, for Valentine’s, may you always be loved.

I saw the love of my life dancing, in front of a cafe in Cubao. He was like the rain: vertical, sometimes horizontal, occasionally diagonal and ungraceful. Despite this lack of grace, I am still amused. Three times, that night, I asked him to take me back. All times, I got denied. I had resigned, albeit not immediately.

But now you are no longer what you were,
the beloved,
Who traded hours of sleep for moments of
harried love.**

While he may no longer be what he was–the one to hold my hand, the one to make me sigh in the morning and twice at night, the one who makes me want to comb my hair–I can not completely say I do not love him anymore. He is, after all, the only one who has staked my heart.

I wish for him to have magic in his life, and to experience the miracle which we have deprived ourselves off. That in itself, I guess, is enough.

Today is his birthday. Happy birthday, Abel Quintos. He turns 24.

** Oscar Zuñiga – Room with April Rain

Not one of those one-tear-down-your-cheek because a heart string was pulled, but an honest to goodness cry. There was a puddle on my cubicle desk the size of my palm, because I was too shy to showcase my emotional agitation so I was face down on the desk.

I was listening to Dave Matthew’s Oh, the only song which can make me cry spoonfuls of tears at any random moment. It was because I miss my mom, my old mom.

I hear you still talk to me
As if you’re sitting in that dusty chair

The other day I came home to a glass of sugar water in the sink. This is frustrating as my mother is a stroke-patient diabetic. She can not move her left hand and can barely maneuver her left leg. A glass of sugar water is a death wish. Months of all this had deadened me, had this happened a year ago I would have been stark enraged. That night, I had simply let out a sigh and poured the contents of the glass down the kitchen sink.

It’s cold and darkness falls
It’s as if you’re in the next room so alive
I could swear I hear you singing to me

Prior to her stroke, my mother is a lawyer. She braves long bus rides to provide to her four children-all by herself. She took beating after beating from my abusive father. I believe this had only made her more loving and protective. She is what strong should be. Looking at the four of us, I can sincerely say that we did not turn out so bad, however we are just subjected to the luck of the draw–or the severe lack of good luck in it.

I love you oh so well
Like a kid loves candy and fresh snow
I love you oh so well
Enough to fill up heaven overflow and fill hell

This entry is for my mother, because she makes me cry on an almost daily basis. Despite all the neurosis, suicide attempts before and after her stroke, shouting matches, and defiance, I love her oh so well.

This morning, I had this unholy craving for salt. Or Lucky Me Instant Pancit Canton, I chose the latter. I do not know why every time I 
 get a hang-over I feel the need to stuff myself with salty food.

I want to remember last night. I want to fold the conversation in my head. The one I had with good friends (Sophia Maria and Johanna Marie) so as that i can remember some of the lessons I learned over that short period of time. But I forget about most of it now, I blame the fact that I stumbled and fell several times from the subdivision gate to the house, looking like the town drunk in flipflops and shorts. There is a certain loneliness to it, going home late on a Monday night alone with no one to worry whether you made it home safe. But then again, I will contradict myself because I know I do not like being patronized.

After not-drunk talk about promotional posters, iPod music, cuddling, boys fascination for drama, and mixed signals, I think I can safely say that:

I will try to avoid talking about all of you who had borrowed my attraction, affection and heart. I do not like the idea of not attaching names to the letters I write, considering I forget very easy. Which is why I decided to acquire a new blog via tumblr and write to each one of you there. I won’t even hold back some details, in there I could tell you the truth and you do not even have to assume anything. We can never really get too much honesty these days, eh?

Here is for all the remembrances. In no particular order.