Posted in Prose

A Rose Pressed Between the Pages of a Book


I never thought I am capable of feeling this kind of pain. It seems like everything inside of me has been snapped broken, cut open, and I begin losing myself, bit by bit, pieces by pieces. I am not like this— a boy with a broken smile, a distant gaze, drowning in the cadence of his deep, muddled thoughts. No matter how I try to be my old self again, the kind of ‘me’ before you left, I just couldn’t make it. The mere act of smiling away the pain I am feeling inside is just awfully tiring. I am trying. I am honestly trying to be okay. But it isn’t just the truth. This is the truth: I am sad. I am not okay. I am dying. 

 

This must be how it feels like when you are dying. Everything around me passes in a blur, and is difficult to comprehend. It’s like they lost all their meaning. Or maybe my ability to see things clearly, to understand things deeply, has also left me like you did. 
I am dying. I am fading. Slowly, pieces by pieces, I am wilting, just like a rose plucked off from its stem for being so admiringly beautiful, only to be left pressed between the pages of the book, abandoned, forgotten, alone— I am withering. 
I hope someday you will remember me. When you do, open the book and find me between its pages. And when you find me, remember the scent I was once emanating, remember the color I was once glowing, remember all the reasons why you once adored me, why you once picked me. Remember who I was, and what was the meaning I once held in your life. Remember how, once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you plucked me off and took me, because you love me. 
Because you loved me. 
Once. 
© Sage Brillantes, October 12, 2015, 8:10 pm

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Posted in Prose

The Last Kiss


           I first smelled his scent before I saw him. It was a scent that reminded me so much of winter—cold and unforgiving, but ruthlessly sweet. It was the same scent emanated by the shirt he left the night after we made love for the first time. And the last time. It was the scent from his shirt that had me holding on for so long a time, the only thing I had left of him. It was the same scent I breathe in as I cried and wondered where he was, and why he left without even saying goodbye. It was the same scent that taught me to let go, slowly, as it is also slowly wearing out.

          So when I smelled that same winterish scent one September night, emanated by the man who had just passed around me and took a seat on the next table to me inside McDonald’s, all of the memories that I had buried deep down came rushing to the surface. I watched him through the corners of my eyes, and through the blur I made out his familiar contour and self-possession—the way he sat haunch, like he was leaning in to listen. It was him. It was both overwhelmingly sad and relieving. After a long time, finally…

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