algiorithm

[algiorithm]

“What would have happened if you told him?”

To withstand a night of longing, I let my chest grumble and rage; to feel the eruption of what I physically hold on to. In nights where I find myself slowly inching back to you, I rely on memories, I ask myself questions, and I tuck away the remaining wonders.

They say the night is the deadliest thing to ever haunt the healing. To me, it was the silhouette of your coat, and the little bit of hope.

“Good night.”

[algiorithm]

Amid the kaleidoscopic irradiation of the cosmic wonders; pilgrims hallowed the silvery road as a God in retrospect.

[algiorithm]

You weren’t evident only in songs, but everything melodic. I’ve discovered that you were a paean for love, because like you: it lulls, it pampers, it heals.

Walk home whenever you’re ready.

[algiorithm]

I don’t believe in Science, but surprisingly, I believe in you.

To Dior,

I’m a smart kid. I know what to do when I need to execute it, I know what to say whenever I get asked a question that seeks relevance to the knowledge I have stored in my head. Well, don’t get me wrong. I read your presentation about Science and how you indulged it to something more fictional, love. I read it a few times now, actually. I love how the cliché tints of love matched your canvas—it reminded me of something I felt a few centuries back, can’t quite name it, but I’ll let you do the thinking.

Like I said, Dior. I’m a smart kid, and I want to help. To my dismay, there wasn’t a conclusion about Rocket Science, nor was there a cure for whatever you are feeling. I hope that in days count, you can reply back to this email with an eased heart, and preferably, a cure for Rocket Science. (There isn’t any. Just heal.)

Falling in love is no Rocket Science, Dior. Although, I hope you’re aware: The next person to fall in love with you will soon realize that getting over you is just as complicated as Rocket Science. Oh, yeah. Happy Birthday! :)

All the love,

Ysabela.

[algiorithm]

“Knock on my door even though it’s 3 in the morning. Whether it’s about an annoying character that has been getting on your nerves, a poem you wrote out of impulse, or a serenade. Come even if you’re not properly dressed or on the verge of crying.”

And even though I will never be capable of hearing your voice, I’ll wander my way through your heart to recognize you even without words.

[algiorithm]

“Overthinking clouds my mind once in a while, and when it does, I usually detach myself from people out of my instinct. I asked her what she thought about it, but she just shrugged and kissed my forehead.”

“I’ll let you in on my secret, love. I tend to notice these changes you speak of, and normally, I’d prepare a soaked piece of clothing to put atop of your head. And if by chance you’ve had a rougher day, I’d lay beside you in bed to recite the confession I gave you years ago...

Because asides the seasons of May—asides the whirlpool that swiveled through town that took us to where we are now, nothing has really changed. It has always been, and it will always be the two of us, until the Sun meets the horizon and when it wakes again,” she said.”

[algiorithm]

Must I frown upon the festivities that’ll be executed when the clock strikes 12, or must I worry about the lack thereof?

A lady must be soft-spoken, gentle as a babe, they say. I woke up, already dressed ruffles and laces, face painted with the hard-blended hues of my mother’s pigments—Must he, the God, be merciful enough to spare me another century to atone for my sins, or would I be another noose tied to the tree of life? The thought clouds your mind once in a while.

The catacombs that compel me to commit another would be delighted to know that their God has founded me with another year—only then, they will be forced into tying my knees down to the antique floors of the place they avow to as the Church. Am I free of the life it gave me, or would I be, once again, sacrificed to stand behind the closed walls of their confessions?

I am nothing but a nun that listens to their secrets with a rosary flowing down my neck. Regardless of the metaphors I exhale to vision out their brutality—it ends up with me, speaking without my tongue.

The secrets I promised to keep will find their way out of tranquility, and if they do, I only have my life to pay.

[algiorithm]

I have kept myself tidy and neat for the sole purpose of having your company—I am free of dusty webs and unclean walls: I kept my skin soft for you to lay on, and disposed of all my hair to prevent you from having a scratchy nose. Until you come back home, the door to my heart will remain closed. Because after all, my name is something only you possess, and I, your home.

12:00.

[algiorithm]

My lips will hover over the places on your body, places they can never see—I will kiss you, and kiss you, and kiss you, until I’m assured that in the next lifetime, all I have to look for are the moles I branded on your skin.

[algiorithm]

Dug out corpses and skin-chilling folklores divulging into the depths of knowledge: the seven wonders of the world are pillars that control the time continuum—a century’s worth of time at land that bounces back to different bodies when time.

The truth of life, as they call it.

[algiorithm]

Children nipping on nicotine, the elderly skinned and put above fire where their flesh is to turn into wild fireflies; their head eaten as an alternative to pass on the knowledge.

[algiorithm]

A cave’s carvings will vary depending upon the mundanity of those who used to take shelter. Crimson writings daunting oneself into slitting thy neck—allowing those who repent Lilith to drown in despair, leaving the holy to eat their remains. A God, not the one residing in eternal flames, put them out of their misery.

[algiorithm]

Opaque visionaries of brutality windowed themselves in your slumber; the sight of the true Vatican burning to ashes and the book of lie written by the rotten apple—now, ask yourself: who were you before they blinded you with prayers?

[algiorithm]

Translucent figures smothered in gold-plated schemes of a puppeteer: a noose to tie the mortals, those who left to betray the false God.

[algiorithm]

love bombing in the form of prose—“i will love you into loving me.”

Lasting scenarios that have been repeating themselves in my head turned into proses; inside the unfazed structures of my writings, much like this one: lacking in ways to escape mundanity—I’ve nothing more to hope for, but to rejigger all the sonnets I had penned to the idea of making someone cherish me with my writings; do it willingly, without a flick of my pen—do it willingly, without knowing that you have already committed it inside my compositions.

“Until then, this will remain unfinished: my poetry that lacks a name.” — Art.

[algiorithm]

And when the ungodly hour strikes, somewhere around 3am when my walls are down: I close my eyes and think about how it would feel to walk by the ocean with my one, hand in hand, talking about all the nasty shit we hate about love.

Although I would never admit it, the things we hate are also the things we’ll do on the daily. One day, when my eyes flutter open, I’d be welcomed with the vision of you, and the ocean.

[algiorithm]

Lasting scenarios that have been repeating themselves in my head turned into proses; inside the unfazed structures of my writings, much like this one: lacking in ways to escape mundanity—I’ve nothing more to hope for, but to rejigger all the sonnets I had penned to the idea of making someone cherish me with my writings; do it willingly, without a flick of my pen—do it willingly, without knowing that you have already committed it inside my compositions.

“Until then, this will remain unfinished: my poetry that lacks a name.” — Art.