I still write about you. I still write about you at half past six and I’ve just arrived, when scenarios of what could have been flash on my mind while I’m on the sidewalk with only the streetlights compensating for the whole damn sky.
I still write about you when nothing feels right and the world is against my successes, even with the knowledge of your indifference towards mine. I still write about you when Physics gets too boring to read and Chemistry problems don’t make any sense. I still write about you before I sleep, hoping that you are extraordinary enough to see through the things that I will never say.
I still write about you every time I cannot comprehend the things that I read, because it was always you who made me understand. I still write about you when I want to cry and when I want to laugh and when I want to sing and when I want to die. I still write about you when you’re acting like a complete pain in the ass.
I still write about you, even when the number of times you hurt me is more than the number of times you said you loved me. I still write about you when I feel like holding on to memories, in the hope of recreating them again someday. I still write about you in long tricycle rides, when the wind is blowing in my face and all I could think of is how you reacted when I sent you the song that I wrote about me not moving on, ever. I still write about you after a party that I enjoyed, remembering that it’s never the same without you asking for my hand to dance and join the sea of the damned who pretend to be in love.
I still write about you when I start believing that you’ll come back; because you miss me, because you miss everything about me. I still write about you when I’m hopeless, when I see you in love with another her. I still write about you when times are tough and no one’s there, because you are the spirit that keeps my fire blazing like Cesium burning on a platinum wire dipped in acid.
I still write about you when it’s raining hard and the sun doesn’t shine, when you were always there every time I cried. I still write about you in lonesome nights when I remember how we saw three shooting stars while we were both about to pass out but still trying to stay alive. I still write about you during jeepney rides when I remember how you held my hand while chasing one, and the fact that I couldn’t keep up but you didn’t let go.
I still write about you when they say I deserve more because they do not know that you are my definition of enough. I still write about you thinking that one day, you will be there to read all of this, all this nonsense that I will probably laugh about 30 years from now. I still write about you like it’s always been about you my whole life, because two years felt like four days and four days now feel like two years. I still write about you when I’m tired and my body is craving for your kiss on the forehead, because that’s all it ever took to take the pain away.
I still write about you when I feel cute, when you told me that my nose was the best nose you’ve ever seen, when you bit it and kissed it and hugged me like I was just as good as it. I still write about you when I cry, because you are the best thing that ever happened to me and I can only write about you because I will never be allowed to tell you that I love you. I will write about you in college and I will write about you as I graduate. I will remember the marks you made in my life and I will not forget everything that you and I did to make us last. I will tell our story to my children, as I end up with a man I will never love as much as I love you.
I will write about you after my wedding. I will write how I’ve always wanted it to be you to kiss me in front of the altar, making God the witness of the greatest love on the face of the earth. I will never forget the petals that will be thrown that day, I will never forget how you left me with nothing to say. I will not fret. I will love you the same; now, tomorrow, the day after that, and the years to come. I will love you just the same.
I will write to you on the day I’m about to die, telling you of all the things I wrote since I was a child. I will let you read all that I have to say, and I will write to you because I want you to believe that until my last breath, it was always you that I loved. It was always you that I wrote about.