i don't forget;

art and stories


you’ve given care. too much care. spooned your eyeball to share your vision he hasn’t tried to stare. you waited for the time. it was always his, maybe next time. it was always, after or later. you always nod, your palm covering the empty socket. what else to say but, yes, take your time. the vision of you and him, a fantasy of imaginary thoughts overshadowed by facts. 

i challenge you to talk to him. of what happened today. of how you stride slowly, window shopping, in a mall as hunger strikes. you were keen to analyze what to eat. carbohydrates over sugar. protein but with less sodium. zinc and vitamin c. 

hamburger. why not? you said. beef patty in between bread discs.  fat and cholesterol. consumable synthetic of garbage. meat is not what you want. 

doughnut. please. you said softly. in your mind you picture out the tray of chocolate frosted doughnuts sprinkled with candy and vanilla marbles grinned in your mouth. the taste of it. the after taste. piece per piece. chocolate, vanilla, bavarian, raspberry. dessert is not what you want. 

oreo. probably. you hold the cylindrical pack in one hand as your mind starts to think. inside this are cookies. world’s favorite cookie. spending too much money is not what you want. 

it turns out that you’re hungry for something else. you’re hungry for love. for attention. and i challenge you to talk to him about this. 

don’t believe him,
he’s faking the tears

he raises his hand

left hand. it was always his left. the colossal hand of god, always raised like a flag in a football match. it was his form of goodbye. bye. he would raise his hand and utter the word bye. sometimes i wonder if there’s something more. perhaps, a sign of contentment. an end of an adventure. a start of a new trek. but maybe i am just delusional. that maybe it was me, always me, who always wanted attention. always wanted care. always wanted to continue what is obliged to stop. and every time he raises his hand, that’s when everything meets its deadline. 

left hand. always. he would show his palm. the perfect path of intersecting lines. a map of grids. it was my mirror. goodbye, he would utter. good bye. see you. time to go. time to part. 

and that day, noon time. sun was bletting. he raised his right hand. 

to your hair and to the good old days 

it was june when i first saw her and her hair. two chairs away from my right in my history class.

hannah right. is it hannah? she said yes. her eyes agreed. her cheeks blushed, turned red. it was funny. she giggled, i heard a hiss sound, maybe she was still holding that yes. yesss…. perhaps she wanted to say something. i ended it with, i need to go now

it was her hair, night sky during daylight. the long wavy, mermaid-like hair. i wanted to touch it. comb it with my fingers. braid it. brush it. groom it.

hannah hannah let down your hair. i often joked. she never captured the bait. 

from strangers to almost lovers. from shadows to the lurking secrets. we became friends. i could see she wanted more. but all i wanted was her hair. on her birthday i gave her a hair clip. it wasn’t expensive. just saw it in the road store, i thought she would like it. she did. she thanked me with a paragraph of text message saying she was so glad she met me. 

and it was that day, friday and october, just before halloween. when autumn made the sky bright orange. she confessed. 

i have loved you, josh. 

i saw the panic in her face when she realized i had been pausing for too long. was i waiting for tears before i said something. her hair was telling me i should. the delight of it, of every strand in perfect dimness. i could play it all day. twirl a vine between my fingertips. smell her shampoo. her conditioner. everything that was in there. 

don’t play with my emotions, play with my hair instead. 

Aug. 28, Thursday

He was pretty silent earlier. I mean, he was silent, been silent ever since I met him. But his silence earlier bothered me in some ways. The absence of words made me worry of something bad happened, of something terrible was supposed to occur, of something, just something, may it be big or microscopic, it made me feel distress. The only word I heard from him the entire hour was “HALLS” (a brand of menthol candy), he happened to pronounce it with his blank face when I mentioned that I smell something peppermint in the room. He showed me the candy, it was crystal-like, lucent, clipped between his grinders. I thought of getting the sweet, but he abruptly hid it again. He nods instead of answering yes or no. The shaking of his skull always means yes. The raise of his eyebrows means yes. His yes means yes. Plain yes. Just yes. Period. Nothing more. But his no’s, I always question them, salute them with how or why or passage them with because or if. It was eerie. The sound of silence. The deafening blast of eye contacts. I really thought he was hiding something. But who am I to ask? 


Artist Name: Ken Nacepo
Tumblr: www.his-squid.tumblr.com 


a late afternoon rain. it wasn’t ordinary tho. it wasn’t raining cat and dogs. it wasn’t raining men. it wasn’t raining heart aches and broken promises. but it was raining frogs. bull frogs in evergreen dropped from above and flooded the entire road. their croaks as thunder. their lengthy rubber-like tongues form cracks in the sky. pink and scarlet lightnings. some said it was a curse. others described it as plague. witches and their summoned familiars. an unusual phenomena. a catastrophic disaster to question humanity’s norms. rain of toads. the thought is dreadful.