For a Lost Love

I was young, and the times she had on me made her look worldly and much more beautiful than she already was (she didn’t need to be better looking, my heart skipped a beat every time I looked at her). We always stayed in a coffee shop around Fairview, an hour ride from her place, and 10 minute drive from mine. (Even then, there were metaphors: you could never meet in the middle). I always had chamomile tea, and she always bought a cappuccino; I thought it was a quaint ritual, she never thought about it at all.

She never thought about everything at all…

About going out for some isaw trip because I’m broke.

About going to my place and cooking a dish just because she knows I was craving for it.

About having some ‘empi lights’ with my demon possessed barkada just because you wanted to know them better.

About me driving either too fast or too slow.

About me not talking too much most of the time.

About me when I’m a little aloof when she’s abroad.

About me being a sucker for LA Lakers.

She never thought about everything… Almost everything.

She was asking for a commitment and wants me to move into her place.

I said no to the commitment.

I was young way back then. Still living on the music scene and working for a decent daytime job. I was juggling the nightly gigs, family life and my struggle to get promoted for this fucking job. The thought of having commitment with someone was really out of scope.

I said no to living in.

Maybe this one’s given when I said no to the first offer. I never entertained the idea of living in with someone until marriage and I thanked her for accepting that.

She left the country two months after.

Never talked again.

And half of me is expecting not to see her again.

She was the one who thought me that someone’s happiness could be the other one’s closure.

I’m sure we both know our parts.

For a lost love.


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