Tag Archives: break up

Would it?

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I wrote this when I was ‘past the point of no return’ and started noticing that I still liked the things he liked even after we broke up. I know some of my friends hate certain things simply because these remind them so much of their exes. I saw myself not hating these things at all, no matter how much I wanted to, if only to forget him.

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Would it matter if I still love the things you made me love?

I still love the coffee down at the bakery where we used to share a cup. I still love the book you bought me at the thrift bookstore when I didn’t have enough money. I still love the film you made me watch because you said it was amazing. If I still love the things I associate with you, then does that make me still love you?

I found a place that serves better, and I mean way better, coffee than that bakeshop. I bought a book and have actually read it more than a couple of times. I watched a film that made me laugh, cry, and love my life even more when I got out of the cinema. But I still love the things you love, does that make me still love you?

Would it matter if I still love the things you made me love? Maybe. Maybe not.

I’m with good company, if ever you’re wondering. Nope? Oh, my bad.

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Well?
Peace out!

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from a fox

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I got inspired by ee cummings. How he didn’t capitalize on the i’s really fascinated me. SO here is my attempt at it.

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i once met a little prince

he had cute little eyes

and cute rosy cheeks

unlike his adorable appearance

he was mean and scary

he shouts at people with his mighty roar

and hurts people for no reason at all

but behind the shouts and roar

lies a warm and fuzzy heart

so i gave him hugs and kisses

to show him that he is loved

and so he loved me back

with hugs and kisses too

then he grew warm and gentle with the other people

and just like everything small

he grew up to be a bright young king

with a scepter and crown for ruling the land

so he had responsibilities to keep

and had no time to visit me

so i waited and waited and waited

hearing the clock go tick and tock

and that’s how i taught him patience

and that’s how i taught him how to love

and be loved by someone like me

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Peace out!

Handkerchief

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I wrote this when I was cleaning my room and I found le ex’s hanky. dun dun dun dun….

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Handkerchief. That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief was all he left her; was all she kept. She threw everything away; those gifts, those letters, those poems, those promises, except for that handkerchief.

To tell you honestly, he didn’t give her the handkerchief. She stole it form him. Or maybe he knew she took it. He just didn’t bother getting it back from her.

That’s what he did. He stole her. He robbed her of her innocence and she gladly gave it away. Was it still stealing?

Memory. At some point, a stimulus will cross her path and activate those neurons in her brain to tap the black box of forbidden and ill-forgotten dreams. Like a movie reel, the past plays before her like an unstoppable force of reckoning.

That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief. She is burning it.
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Have I ever written anything not sad? I dunno. I suck at writing happy things. >_<

But what do you think?
Peace out!

Milk Tea

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Here is my attempt at flash fiction. I hope you guys enjoy. 🙂

 

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I saw a couple in the tea house earlier; a young couple. Maybe senior college students. They sat in front of each other. The girl was shaking her large honeydew milk tea. The guy followed suit with his chocolate milk tea. The girl wasn’t in her element. The guy noticed that, too. So he tried to do smalltalk with her.

 

Well, it wasn’t working. The guy was asking the wrong kind of questions. The girl had the chance to answer either a yes or a no. And she did. Then, the girl made a great deep sigh.

 

“Where do you think are we going?”, she said.

“I thought you were planning on an out of town trip with your parents?”

“No, this, us.”

 

The guy had nothing to say. He was getting fidgety on his seat. He tried to make eye contact with the girl but all she could do was stare into the marble tiles. The guy tried to tell something. He was mustering the courage to say something. But he didn’t have enough guts to say it out loud. He left. No stomping or theatrical walkouts. He just left, graciously.

 

The girl was left staring at the blankness of the floor.

 

The girl is me.