fluctuations.

my fluctuations always fail me, and as the risk-taker person i am, i knew that i would most likely arrive to failing myself.

i should’ve seen what was real a bit earlier. maybe love would not fade away that fast. if i had figured it out that September night, maybe November wouldn’t be ghastly gloom. i wouldn’t have spent my jeepney rides listening to sad songs that felt longer than a 20-minute ride. my late nights would have been free from vexing images of you that would appear more as i close my eyes and delve to slumber even if i knew that you would be there, too. then, in the morning i would be projecting a smile the moment i opened my eyes and remembered that you were there even if my physical consciousness was barely present. my mornings would be as good as my early childhood breakfast i could no longer eat this time. my eyes would be sparkling like the water’s transparencies in the sunrise. it could have been that way.

my heart mourns for a love that was not able to reach the peak of the mountain as it struggled to climb. my nights are haunted of my uncertainties and lingering hopelessness. my mornings are nightmares of an unfinished terrible night. and my eyes speak of contained pride and concealed tears. i swore to myself i would never shed a tear for a love that was never mine, but almost did.

i risked to jump a cliff of uncalculated tendencies. i risked hoping you would be there after my landfall, but you weren’t. you survived yours and healed fast as if ours was not high enough for you to adopt a broken heart. i was too late. i was too confident that your patience would be as long a third-world country’s traffic—it was not. if it is, then i would not be here alone, yet i am still here, toppled but not destroyed. and as i sulk into the shadows of November nights, i desired for a new month.