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It starts easy enough.
It could be a whiff of his shampoo. A song on jeepney's radio, probably one you sang along to on drunken nights you can hardly remember.
Sometimes a laugh, from a stranger that sounds just a tad bit like him; often, the smells of bacon and vanilla on a breakfast counter.
Little small hurts, little pebbles that sting your heart until the stings turn to bruises and bruises turn your heart into something you can't recognize anymore.
How did it happen? You don't know, they started off as something so...negligible. Until the little bits turn to big bits and drops turn to rivers that turn into tidal waves and then suddenly there it is: it's crashing down on you: a realization that there is actually a world where there is no we anymore. No more scent of his shampoo on your shirt, where he lays his head on your shoulder. That you're glad you don't remember the words to that song. That that chuckle is a stranger's voice.
You even don't know if you can still eat bacon anymore.
That you are alone and probably will be, for a bit of time.
It starts easy enough. But then it really isn't.
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"Little Things"
It starts easy enough.
It could be a whiff of his shampoo. A song on jeepney's radio, probably one you sang along to on drunken nights you can hardly remember.
Sometimes a laugh, from a stranger that sounds just a tad bit like him; often, the smells of bacon and vanilla on a breakfast counter.
Little small hurts, little pebbles that sting your heart until the stings turn to bruises and bruises turn your heart into something you can't recognize anymore.
How did it happen? You don't know, they started off as something so...negligible. Until the little bits turn to big bits and drops turn to rivers that turn into tidal waves and then suddenly there it is: it's crashing down on you: a realization that there is actually a world where there is no we anymore. No more scent of his shampoo on your shirt, where he lays his head on your shoulder. That you're glad you don't remember the words to that song. That that chuckle is a stranger's voice.
You even don't know if you can still eat bacon anymore.
That you are alone and probably will be, for a bit of time.
It starts easy enough. But then it really isn't.
-------------- x--------------
I figured there's too many scrap paper and fancy notebooks full of thoughts and stories that I've simply run out of room.
The only solution? Throw them all out here.in the internet. For all the world to see. Yeah, that seems rational.
So every Wednesday you can expect some fresh fiction from me, straight from the island. Of course, once on a while perhaps I can also feature work from my super talented friendz at The Write Club Cebu, because, the more the merrier, right?
Let me know what you think
All the love,
K x
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