Music Volume 8.1.12.1

Where are you?

a.k.a. I’m drunk and I want to see you

With my hands in my pockets and lips full of cigarette kisses, I throw my shadows on the ground and pull them with me as I travel the city’s ups and downs. My eyes paint your face on every wall that sang a lullaby out of your name. I try to recall if your smile had always been like the fireworks on our every Fourth of July’s, or the sun setting on the background of every late afternoon of our summer lives. But the alcohol is making my memories vague that I also fail to know if I have ever felt those I love you’s coming from in between your lips were really meant for me.

The night sky shouldn't be dark blue but that’s how I see it, maybe because I feel the same way. And then the moon, just as I try to keep my gaze lock to its glow, start to dance. Now I realize that I have once compared you to it. I remember how your eyes sucked every constellation in the universe. I remember how they shined so bright once that I suddenly kissed you. But you became out of my reach now. I stop and suddenly lie down on the middle of the street. There are diamond rusts in my throat, and on my tongue, and it makes me miss the taste of you. I want to cry your name. The stars aren't present tonight just as your warmth is by my side. But the city train is awake; it makes everything smoky, unclear yet loud, just as my thoughts tonight, and just as the beat of my heart.

I breathe, “Alexandria…” I’m afraid I’m still in love with you, even if I haven’t figured it out yet if you ever felt the same way too. There are still a thousand things I haven’t told you. There are still a million things I want to show you. There is still a heartbeat throbbing inside my chest and it holds your name. “Alexandria,” I whisper as tears crawl across my cheeks. I think I had kept my doubts locked in my chest, and the key to their jailed bodies was swallowed by my blindness of loving you so much. But they don’t matter right now. And somehow... maybe... right now, it doesn't matter that you loved me or not. What matters is I believed you did. And it’s fine. It’s fine.

Then I close my eyes.

(eusie.)

“Sometimes I wonder / if I’m really the best / person for this body.”

— — John Elizabeth Stintzi, from “Salutations From the Storm,” Junebat

sumesex naman ata di murder eh

// murder naman yata eh, hindi sex //

This is about Don’t even think about it, yes?

Hi. I’ll just be in the corner and contemplate about what I did wrong. And probably study about read between the lines? DUNNO. Good evening

@bookhay: “Nalibugan ka lang bes hahahaha”

I thought of you again

I. I don’t know is not the same as Maybe. I know that you already know this. When you want collide them both just to see their differences, there will be an infinite of numbers — close to millions. But would you really waste your time in doing so? When you can’t even measure out our distance and cut them off just to let me caress your face?

II. I am lost, in which everyone seems to agree but no one dares to give me a map just to find myself, just to help me out of your forest. No one did but still, they search for me, yearn for me, and beg me to come out and save myself from you. Why? Tell me, do you breathe fire? Tell me, will you suffocate me with the words coming out of your mouth? Oh, but it seems to me that I am dizzied with them — every day you feed me with your words, right? You whisper them right through my ear, and sometimes just above my naked skin, you linger your breathing. But no, you do not breathe fire; you breathe dandelions and lilies, and tulips and roses. I am the one who breathes fire. Maybe that’s why you won’t let me get to you; you’re the only who touches me and you won’t let me do it to you. Maybe that’s the reason.

III. There are questions in my head, and they steal all the air in my lungs. Do they seek for answers? Do I seek for answers? Quite, but I yearn for them in you. They are heavy; they make me lifeless and if you weren't around to kiss me, giving me a little life, they’d kill me in a split second. Should I come to you to free them? Or should I just freeze myself, and lock myself away? Since I am scared, I am afraid, I am frightened… of what you’ll say, of what’ll happen because these questions, they might become bullets moving in a flash; they’ll pass through my head in a wink of an eye once you answer something I don’t want to hear.

IV. I am a child; you are my playmate. Picture this: we've been playing happily around for quite some time now, but in times that you leave… I am left behind, waiting for you to come back. Sometimes, you’ll be here after a day, an a hour, a month, a week, two days or five, three weeks, six hours… yes, you come back and you come back with a warm smile, then I welcome you just as equally, forgetting the times I was doubting you wouldn't.

V. It’s because I love you that I always wait for your return, even if sometimes keeping pace with time is tiring that I hope that I’ll stop looking out of my windows for you. And before I know it, my palms are cold and I’ll die of just sweating. Then I’ll remember you again, and I’ll hate you for a while. At some time later, I’ll be back to normal. Yes, I am crazy. I’m sorry. But what I really want to know is when I ask you “Will you ever come back and just stay with me for good?” I hope you won’t give me the words I don’t know or maybe. You should already know why I won’t swallow them. And if everything screws up and you’ll end up in my place, I really want to know… how long will you wait for me to come back? How long will you sing a thousand of melodies just to never bore yourself while you stitch in your crowded mind that you love me; because whenever I wait for you, that’s all I think about but sometimes, I really hope I don’t.

( ayen. & eusie. )

IG : amamiya_shion9

a feeling: “nothing lost but something missing”

my throat tastes of rust and i'm drunk on my tears

my cries dance on the rooftop and i'm a high tide on this silent night

there is a rustling inside of me that doesn't stop

and sometimes it ends up as an aching a yearning for an unknown

this skin keeps on burning and i’m still hurting

but i don’t why

(eusie.)

“Will you still love me in the morning?”

a.k.a. She says, “Yes,” while he answers, “No.”

She arrives at home a few minutes after five, clutching her heart tightly with her fingers. She looks around for a certain display of messy dark hair, her knuckles turning white every passing second. When her eyes couldn’t see what it sought out but meet a pair of amber orbs, she lunges forward onto its beholder.

He’s wearing his favorite navy blue shirt with gray linings on its sleeves, both of his hands clasping a book. His eyes turns back to it, she presumes, as she settles down in a leathered sofa in front of him. He’s seated on the loveseat, half lying on it even; his back resting on one rolled arm, his feet relaxing on the other.

She looks at his face and straightforwardly asks, “Why did you do it?”

He — who understood the question right away without any needed explanation from her to clear what could be a misinterpreted query — simply supplies, “I don’t like the way you look at it, or the way your fingers last a little more unnecessary than it should when you trace it through. I wanted it off right away the moment I couldn’t take it anymore.”

But you love it, she almost whispers. He used to, her mind takes in on account. “Are you okay?” she chooses to inquire.

He only looks at her, his amber eyes slowly mirroring an ember fire. He stands up and closes the material he was reading. She can hear her fingers tapping on her knees. Or maybe it’s the walls pleading in soft creaks. Or it’s her heart, with its great desire to come off of her chest and run away.

She wants to run away from the burning heat of her lover’s stare.

After a few minutes, she finds herself lost in a blurry surrounding. She focuses her vision and sees herself in the same sofa, her hands bleeding from how tight she was holding the end of her dress. Like how she’s holding her pieces together, just for it to not clutter and break into smaller ones.

But when she raises her gaze and find him at the edge of the stairs, she finally lets go.

And when he quietly murmurs an “I’m okay,” she decides she didn’t want to pick herself up. Her wounds will only cut deeper.

He didn’t even ask if I was, she thinks. Later, she stops thinking.

(eusie.)

i "plant your lips on my body like a flower and let them wither ii “and i’ll paint the color of your eyes anew iii “the midnight moonlight slips through my brittle bones iv “and i fall on my knees; i can’t pretend; i’m falling, and falling v “you are my favorite time of day, my favorite night of sad vii “the warmest the end of my handmade fairytale viii “lay me down on an open road; put me on the end of the rope ix “falling in love is dangerous, but falling for you is chaos x “you are an echo from a dark cave i shouldn't enter xi “you are a hole on my parachute, a fire ready to conquer xii “tie me with your breathless kiss and let me shiver all the pain xiii “the dawn will paint our skies orange but i’ll only love your glinted eyes xiv “and you’re the only one i’ll let to love me to death, to kill me further xv “you are, you are, you are my favorite sin of all” — listening to “trouble i’m in” by twinbed (eusie.)

an interview with my neighbor

part 2: macy edwards-johansson

i knocked on the door with a force that could break my knuckles as if my heart isn't enough with all its pieces crumbled to the tiles of the doorway

please don't let this one break me again

macy wasn't always home she looks for it in certain places and from a number of persons i wouldn't want to know

"home shouldn't be about the t.v. going nuts as you rest on your couch after a long day “so you sleep instead and it should be okay “home shouldn't be being aware of the bloody smoke coming from your cigarette that will blind you from living “but you choose to give in anyway because damn it, you're already dead from all these shit happening in your life “home should be sitting on the bottom of stairs with no one to calm you down “but the walls lull to you that it's okay to cry so you cry “home, to me, is when you want to be fucked up “so your home fucks you up, but in the end, it stays beside you, unbroken and full to cope up with your brokenness and emptiness"

she wants to be loved so fucking bad i don’t know if she’ll ever get to find someone who’ll make her feel home

macy didn't respond on the first to three banging on the door

i hoped she's somewhere inside sleeping peacefully and not anywhere hugging her fingers on bottle necks, getting damn wasted

i shouted her name and then her house shrieked her door slowly danced open, revealing macy with droopy eyes

before i can even drop a phrase, she whispered gently — and i saw the universe glowing in her eyes —

“i finally found my home”

and that was all i needed for today

(eusie.)

i wanna be the one who you think of when you look at the moon or the shadow that you miss at night can i be the story behind the pieces of crumpled paper on your bedroom floor? i wanna be the cold beer that kiss you every time you feel out of breath

an excerpt from a poem i wrote and deleted pt. 2 (eusie.)