When the Sandman forgets to visit you, I will hold your hand. I will wait for you to finish staring at your tea. I will trace the stars on your skin, and wait.
When my soul feels too heavy to wait for you, I will hold you close in a tight embrace and pray to God my arms would never let you go. I’ll pray my hardest.
When you run out of our room and into your own, I will not follow you. I will wait by the door and count the sound the water makes when it hears only our gravity and falls on the floor. When it feels like the air has drowned all sound, I shall make my own and wait for you. I’ll spell your name out into the world until it begs me to stop and you return.
I shall make pancakes when you come back. The way you want them to; not pale nor crispy just something in between — somewhat in the grays.
And when I can no longer remember the face of the Sandman, and can only dance to the faint memory of your heartbeat, I shall still wait for you. I will.
Dear internet people of the present and the future,
I have been dragging my ill physical self to work for more than a week now. I have not had the chance to take a sick leave because of the many things we had to accomplish. But as mere mortals, our bodies are destined to just betray us at one point despite our efforts — mine did. I had to claim two sick leaves and had to go back to work today even if I have not completely recovered.
Today’s classroom scenario with my grade 3 boys:
Student 1: Hi! Are you feeling better now?
Me: Well. . . yes, but I’m still not completely okay.
Student 2: Then, why are you here?
Me: Because you have a test today and I’m worried for you guys.
Student 3: What? You shouldn’t be worried! We’re ready for the test.
Me: Okay! Cool. Is everyone ready for the test?
Me: Well, let’s start then! Bring out the materials you need for the test.
Half of the class: . . .
Half of my heart: . . .
Half the class: It’s not with me. It’s in my locker. What materials?
Me: This. is. why. I’m. worried.
Student 3: . . .
But I surely missed them — my sweet little boys.
“Line them up like purple pansies”
I never understood what it meant. You used to say this when you lay asleep in the middle of the night.
I told you about it once and you laughed at me. I never understood what they meant — your laughter and the sentence that seemed to belong in your dreams.
I never told you about it. But I will tell you now.
The first time I heard you speak in your sleep woke me up in a haste. Your voice was clear and cold when you commanded him, her, or them to line them up like purple pansies.
I sat up and watched you sleep; waiting for you to say them again. You never did.
I heard it once more but this time you were probably in a different dream. You whispered that I should line them up like purple pansies. I was bewildered. I allowed myself to smile at your strange sleeping habit.
I moved some hair off your face and whispered back. Yes, love, I will line them up like purple pansies. I got up and turned the lights out.
I must say that I heard them countless times. Each time, was different from the other time. The only thing that remained similar was that I never understood what it meant.
I still don’t but I miss the way you say it.
It is simple and beautiful like most Japanese literature. Reading Hiromi Kawakami’s Strange Weather in Tokyo is a lot like staring at the night sky and wondering what about it seems so fascinating.
The book is a love story that is very relatable despite its uncanny situation and plot.
An almost forty year old Tsukiko finds herself in the company of her Japanese secondary school teacher whom she barely remembers when he first approaches her.
They later on find themselves entangled in a karmic situation — meeting without making plans and without having any expectations and demands.
The book takes you on a journey of doubts and fears all in the name of love. It’s not heavily laden with societal problems and pressures, instead it focused more on the characters’ internal predicaments and fears.
The music is unchanged and yet our dance feels different — like palms that catch smoke. Stubborn smoke nestles in our air spaces which sends me gasping; while you remain indifferent as if your lungs have always been burning. I never set them on fire. It wasn’t me.
I miss the way you pluck out seeds in your heart and blow them into my insides. The flowers aren’t hiding. They have long been gone. Even weeds do not find it worthwhile to even try to exist.
We are dead.
You and I.
The fire did not kill us.
We are less fire and more dead-ice.
Yes, we are.
Every night I wish only that you would be mine. This I always shyly and cautiously leave hanging in the air. Only the stars and the leaves that rustle by my feet bear witness to my desperation – my pathetic contradictions.
Every night the moon watches me and drowns my plea with its silvery moonlight. I watch my shadows dance beneath the lamppost as I whisper my request out into the world.
The moonlight does not falter. It seeps through my very being. It fills me up and empties me.
Unlike the fragments of light that escape the clasp of leaves and branches, my wish will not reach the Gods.
Every night I whisper your name out into the world in the hopes of having you closer to me. In exchange, a piece of you is taken by the Gods as my own special atonement.
My heart tells me I should stop. My mind urges me forward.
Tell me, will the moon ever run out of light?
the wind, knocked out of me.
my lungs, like stubborn wind
does not succumb,
unable to surrender to death
for your sake.
my heart breaks
to a fast paced waltz
it shatters more,
each piece crying out
each letter of your name
it starts with a loud J
and ends in a hushed
it comes back.
like the ghost of poison
enough to bring forth
and cause me
to bend forward.
and scream your name