where your soft skin meets my calloused hands, i’ll be home.
It’s strange how the word can leave such a bitter and acrid taste in my mouth. It rolls off my lips in a clipped staccato of 2 syllables teeming with the finality of some endless void that spans an infinite area of in-betweens and never-quite-theres and half-hearted gestures of wishing you were someplace other than where you are right now.
The soft and sometimes passionate longing that nags behind the atriums of the heart and resonates in the secret places of the ventricles, as each beat dulls the edges but the blood never seems enough to drown the pain.
432 seems just like any other number, arranged in an inconsequential random series spoken in the mathematical language of geniuses, decipherable only by the limits of imagination.
432 streetlights last night when I went out driving around the early streets of Cebu, allowing the cold night wind to lash at my face leaving a cold trail of pale and raw kisses around my jawline as it caressed my hair leaving wild knots and tangles in its wake.
432 cigarette butts burried in a nest of letters with burnt edges and locks of my hair, stored safely my grandfathers wooden tobacco box, hidden between the two books no one would ever touch or ever notice. Each one stale and stained and withered at the thought of you and of us.
432 kilometers between my hand and yours.