He has trouble sleeping but tonight he's home early for once, he tells me. He is tired and falling asleep but he needs to stay up to work.


And i want to tell him, whenever you take my hand i think i understand exactly how that feels.











but i don't say anything.

a thousand origami cranes and you get a wish. a thousand is a price cheap enough. i'll own it, i know i would. a thousand would come easy, if i could only fold one.




you do 856,427 things a day and i'm waiting for you to come back. i'm waiting for your touch because i never have to wait for your voice. but i'm waiting for the few hoursminuteseconds that your voice will be (all!) mine tonight.

but no i am not waiting for you to realize that i'm the best thing that ever happened to you.

no no no, i am not, even now as i am trying to figure out step twelve so i can fold the first of a thousand.

hearts get heavy when filled with weightless words. it drags you down and makes you want to fling it away.









but that's how things die.

"hi, pangga." he called out as i was walking. "anong pangalan mo?"

i walked past.

"bakit ka takot? wag ka matakot. gusto ko lang makipagkilala."

i stopped and turned to shove him against the gate he was leaning on. he, easily being the stronger one between the two of us, had me by the wrists. i smiled as my bracelets bit into my skin.

"you know, i never understand why you all seem to think that i'm scared when i deem it beneath me to pay attention to some strange man standing in the dark, calling out to little girls."

he stared at me slack-jawed and uncomprehending.

"and what's worse is, i've payed you more attention than you're worth and you don't even understand."

with that i pulled away, and continued walking home.



hubris will be my downfall. i don't know why i'm so angry.

inside the studio you can't really tell the time of day, and this is what i do, this, listening to enough morrissey to depress me well into the year, and, with their photos, slipping little haiku into the envelopes of people who won't appreciate them.

( come armageddon, come. )

the penguin, i found, scars easily. i've been forced, rather reluctantly, to retire it its bed-companion duties. i was hoping i'd be able to make it fly. i guess, i'll have to give up that project too. i washed it (by hand, even) in an attempt at preservation, i think. it smells like fabric softener now.


lately, i find myself wondering what penguins are made of. but, really, i haven't the heart (or the nerve, for that matter) to try and find out.





well tonight i'm off to the playground. tonight i'm a failed scheherezade. next week i get back my life.

i want you to know you make me happy.










i want you to know you make me sad.