we didn’t need music
just the hum of the fridge
and the dog barking two floors down.
the sheets were half off the bed,
her hair in knots,
my hands shaking
like I’d lived a hundred lives
and never touched something so real.

Serena—
she looked at me like she already knew
where the cracks were
and kissed me there first.
no ceremony,
just heat and breath
and two ******-up hearts
trying to beat in time.

she moaned like it mattered,
like the world might stop spinning
if we didn’t keep going.
I bit her lip, she scratched my back,
we left bruises that felt like
truth.

afterward,
she lit a cigarette
with a hand still trembling
and said,
"we’re not broken,
just bruised in the right places."
and I believed her.

I'm meant to hold your hand--
the way it curls over mine with
such a tenderness that's enough
to make me smile and leak tears
onto the bundled scarf.

The wind sweeps them away,
I blink up at you and know
the warmth your smile pours--
liquid amber honey that
holds me steady in your gaze,
and yet--
this is a new place.

We have been here for days,
Rushing around on trains
and buses
and cabs
and subways
to all the places humanity treasures--
and I want to experience every moment
with You.

The culture in new places
always feels like a theoretical
until it's experienced...like an outline,
a sketch, a diagram even--
but diagrams don't reflect
the life in your eyes when
you quietly whisper a pun
while the tour guide is guiding
and I have to cover my mouth
or risk the ire of a librarian stare
from whomever might be offended
by a little burst of joy being born.

It started raining on the cobblestone
as we were walking to brunch,
but you brought an umbrella and
sheltered us from being soaked as
some less fortunates skittered through
the streets like animals seeking shelter...
but we are in no rush;
We enjoy the rain, the sound, the smell,
as it melts the scene that should be
painted in watercolor.

I don't imagine I would--
Or even that I could
forget all the little things.
I collect them like seashells or
shiny little rocks, and I
put them in my pockets and they
lift me up as if they weren't little
rocks at all but balloons
not letting my feet
ever touch the ground
floating forever
in this love we've found.

Sometimes love isn’t loud.
It doesn’t always arrive with flowers,
or surprise visits,
or hours spent side by side.

Sometimes,
it’s in the late replies that still feel warm.
In the tired voice that still says “I love you.”
In the silence that doesn’t feel empty
because we know—deep down—we’re still choosing each other.

It’s in a random meme sent at 2AM,
just to say, “I saw this and thought of you.”
In a soft “pagod ako,”
not as a complaint, but as a quiet letting in—
letting me be part of your exhaustion.

It’s in the everyday check-ins:
“kumain ka na?”
“nakauwi ka na ba?”
Not just questions,
but little reminders that say:
I care. I’m with you. Even from far away.

It’s in the way we stretch time,
make space,
find light in the middle of our chaos.
In the way you pause your busy day
just to make me feel remembered.

Love, for us,
isn’t always about presence—
it’s about intention.
It’s about showing up
in small, quiet ways
that matter more than anyone else sees.

We’re not always available.
But we’re always trying.
And that trying,
that choosing,
even in between work, sleep, and everything in between—
that’s where love lives.

Because even when we don’t say much,
even when we’re tired, busy,
or miles apart—
I still feel you.
And somehow,
that’s more than enough.

What are the things you hold onto?

lavender petals
and oceans of breeze
I twist wind around my fingers
because it’s so free
I cling on to departures
& doorway exit chats
I grip table conversations
where napkins fall to the floor
and we unknowingly
covered in crumbs and crumbled
pastry, coffee and lavender tea
I hold onto
friendships and moments
and when the ground starts shifting
I still
like static wind
like irony