The Breaking.

Because tonight, we're dying.

Because tonight, we're going home.

Because tonight, we will be in deep sleep wrapped in each other's arms.

In each other's arms, we will lie.

In each other's arms, the happiness shall linger.

In each other's arms, we'll carry on.

We'll carry on, with the flight of birds.

We'll carry on, like what they did in the end.

We'll carry on.

Because tonight, we will be in deep sleep wrapped

In each other's arms.

PDA (Why We Just Won't Care)

Public Display of Affection. Who’s affected, really?

Holding hands. Cuddlings. Strokes. Kisses. And then there goes your get-out-of-my-sight-because-I’m-plain-irritated stare. There goes the forehead wrinkles pointing to the nose, darkening the eyes and for a little while you whine and stomp a bit and you noisily flip the page of the book you’ve been trying to read and understand for hours already. From time to time you raise your head a little bit just too quickly to steal a glimpse of the couple, or perhaps the group of couples, or whatever was that in their loving that gives you that disgusted feeling.

Perhaps they’re just a bunch of unconcerned souls seeing nobody but their you-are-my-only-world partners, snuggling anywhere and anytime. Perhaps they’re bohemians, who believe in, above all things, love. Perhaps they’re non-conformists, battling the societal norms of conservative and oppressive behavior. Perhaps, it’s just your very own problem, not theirs.

So what was your problem, anyway? Does the very act of love - well, okay, perhaps it’s just lust or infatuation, but hell - hinder you from minding your own business? Does it stop you from doing what you were supposed to do, rather than taking time to look at them then just whine afterwards? Was that just bitter, envious perhaps? Was it your little version of voyeurism, then?

These PDAs doesn’t seem to be much of a negative externality than that of the noises people around make, disturbing you from doing what you should be doing, rather than the mere cuddling of a couple from the bench a bit far away. Besides, not everybody knows how to translate body language. Especially boys, see? Not everyone has the privilege to psych your actions out, to understand critically what you meant by flipping loudly the pages of your book. More likely then that they won’t care about you either. So it’s better to rely on the most direct way of communication: tell them to just stop, if it really bothers you that much. But first, try answering why you were bothered. Yes, it’s a matter of respect but people, we don’t know how much respect you expect from us. If you think PDA might be disrespectful, do you’re job by respectfully telling the culprit to move somewhere else, probably. Signs won’t work, seriously. People don’t interact with signs. People interact with people.

It’s either you confront them, or just don’t care.

Better Half.

I remember the frustration-stricken days of my high school, where everything felt so dark and gloomy, where everything seems to be conspiring, where everything makes me feel alone. It was an era of sadness, of the most obscure emotions, of maximum volume radio played with burned CDs of alternative rock, times in the room pretending to study hard but all I did was shout and cry, constantly praying to God that this ill feeling of extreme loneliness would go off.

It's not that I don't have any friends. I have a lot. Ever since gradeschool I have a lot of friends, people who walk in and walk out. It's just that I had no companion, no one to talk to about my own problems, my own things I'm concerned of and bothered about. All I was, was just to simply be a confidant, a good listener, a drain of everything friends of mine have poured into. I was just a vent.

But none of these friends, not a single one of them, listened to my own troubles, comforted me of my own worries, joined me in my own unfortunate quests. Neither of them knew what I was going through, because nobody asked, nobody noticed, and perhaps nobody cared. Perhaps I was just a piece of blank paper everyone had written on, making me who they want me to be, who they need me to be for the moment.

The reasons for the tears were those. All my life, as it had probably seemed to be at least for me, I have been wanting to have a companion, a best friend, a brother, or perhaps a twin. I was looking for that friend who will walk in and for the first time in my life will be concerned for me, will notice my troubles, will listen to my problems, will help me get through it, perhaps everything I could also drain myself into. Perhaps I've been looking for everything my friends were making me into, perhaps I was looking for another me, for me.

Now I think I haven't got through with this problem, but rather I got along with it. It's something I might just have to live by, not as a miserable fate but as a identity-creating trait. Probably it's just gonna come, as what a lot of people would helplessly and mindlessly say, or probably it's just gonna stay as it is and remain a wish forever.

Whatever it may be, I think for now I just want to get along with my friends and discover more who could just listen to me and all that. Sometimes they can be annoying but there are extraordinary times that come more often than what's supposed to be ordinary, then some friends simply become my confidants, probably one of my super friends, seem to be a brother, perhaps a twin, a better half of me. And I guess I'll just have to live with that, for the moment. But still a part of me wishes for the same damn thing that has remained to be a wish, a silent murmur within me, since the old days of loud alternative music and sobbing in the room, covered up by my pillows in solitude mourning for my own fate.

The silence.

It's 2 in the morning.

I wake up from a small dream, realizing that my left arm has been numb from your head sleeping on it. I decide to watch you as you sleep, as you breathe in and breathe out the air with pure tranquility. I watch as your chest moves up and down slowly, as your silent humming induced by your slumber invades the room. Then I raise my right arm to cuddle you, hold you tightly as you continue to sleep. I place my fingers to your lips, retracing the very exact lips I have kissed a while ago. I move them to your breasts, slowly travelling the curves down to your stomach.

Then as I might have already thought of, you wake up and find me circling your bellybutton with my right-hand fingers while my left arm feels the blood rush from being numb as used as your pillow. Before you open your mouth to speak of perhaps something sweet, I immediately kiss you, my hands looking for your hands, slowly assisting you to lay back down, my body above your body. But your hands reach for my neck, and your legs hanging on my back.

I can still feel the that same tiring feeling after we did that hours ago, but I also can still feel the same passionate exciting feeling.

I got the signal. I put away the blanket that covers us both, and you reach for me, my entirety within, and you kiss me back, hotter, harder. It's as if I can feel every bit of you, which I really do.

There's nothing else to remove. Everything's ready.

Here goes the second round.