biskyistyping

[biskyistyping]

Ledger

Today, the thought of dying has found me again—not with violence, but with quiet logistics. I’m not imagining rope or pills or heights, just… bills. Who’s going to pay for my casket? It’s strange, the way despair becomes practical. I picture my body, finally still, and wonder not about the afterlife, but the invoice. Will they choose the cheapest pine box or something elegant, lined in velvet and guilt?

And where will I go? Not in spirit, but in soil. Will I be buried near my childhood home, where the earth still knows my name? Or too far for my parents to come, with only empty chairs left at the funeral? Would they cry, or would they just ache—silently, endlessly?

And you—would you remember me? Not the best parts, not even the worst—just something. The way I chewed on pens. The way I hummed when I didn’t know I was doing it. Did I leave anything of worth behind? A sentence someone will quote, a photo someone won’t delete. Did I plant any seeds, or was I just passing through, a traveler in a borrowed body?

I don’t want to be a burden. Not in life. Not in death. But the weight of staying feels heavy, and the cost of leaving feels cruel. So I write this instead. A message in a bottle, tossed into the current of now, hoping it drifts to a shore where someone might say: You were here. You mattered. We remember.

[biskyistyping]

Lust

Sir, Please, control your eyebrows—this is a café, not a mating ritual. I could be reciting Sylvia Plath or plotting my novel in peace, but instead, I’m dodging glances that look like they’ve just discovered fire. Did you know I write poetry? Deep, soul-twisting stuff. Sonnets that could resurrect Shakespeare. And yes, I can sing too—notes that could shatter your ego into tasteful confetti. So maybe, instead of staring at my clavicle like it owes you money, you could ask me about my favorite stanza or the last time I cried over a chord progression.

Revolutionary, I know.

[biskyistyping]

Death

There are all kinds of people in this world. Some walk through life like it's an errand they never signed up for, eyes half-open, hearts on mute, always waiting for the weekend or the next big thing that might make it all make sense. Others hold each day like a fragile bird in their hands, marveling at its heartbeat, trembling under the weight of its brevity.

We all know—somewhere in the hidden chambers of our minds—that we’re going to die. Every one of us. It’s not a secret, nor is it a surprise. It’s a quiet reckoning waiting in the background, as faithful and final as dusk. Yet how we carry that knowledge makes all the difference.

Some people use it as an excuse. They shrug and say, “Why bother?” They drift, they waste, they hurt and get hurt as if the consequences are erased by the simple fact of impermanence. They call it realism. But it’s only fear in disguise—a fear of depth, of love, of mattering.

Then there are the others. The ones who let the truth of death crack them open instead of shutting them down. They are the ones who kiss longer, cry easier, laugh like thunder, and listen like the world might end in the middle of your sentence. They do not deny the end—they honor it. And because they do, they live.

So the question is not whether you know we all die. We all know. The question is: have you let that knowledge change you?

Has it moved your feet toward the ones you love? Has it made your hands gentler, your words softer, your time more precious? Has it lit a fire in your chest that says, “While I am here, let me truly be here”?

Which one are you, really?

And if you don’t know… maybe that’s the beginning.

[biskyistyping]

Daydream

I only came in for letter paper, swear on Jo March’s ink-stained fingers—but then I saw the way you write, that gorgeous handwriting looping across a notepad like it owns the place, and suddenly I’m starring in my own bookstore romance. You're shelving something near poetry, completely unaware that I’ve turned into a walking metaphor two aisles over. I peek between the shelves, trying not to knock anything over, pretending to browse while secretly wondering if you’d ever scribble your name next to mine. You’re the pencil, I’m the notebook—would you open me up, just once?

[biskyistyping]

Alchemy

My mind can make love out of anything—even the smallest shards.

A button from a coat you never wore. The echo of a sentence you didn’t finish.

I gather them— bits of light, half-words the crack in the ceramic cup.

Hold them up to the window, watch the sun catch on them like stained glass from another life.

I don’t need the whole thing— just a trace, a fingerprint left in fog, something to warm my hands around when memory grows cold.

I call it alchemy— this quiet magic of making meaning from the scattered.

[biskyistyping]

No

There is a room in her memory where time does not move.

It smells like metal and silence, a silence so thick it scraped her throat raw. The walls are painted with the color of trust betrayed—bright once, now peeling. It is always night in that room, no matter what the sky outside says. And in that place, her body is not hers. It’s something else—something borrowed, broken, and returned without ceremony.

He left behind fingerprints she cannot see, only feel.

They rise when she’s alone. When her breath catches for no reason. When a voice behind her is too close. When a hand rests too long. When she smells a certain brand of soap. When someone says her name like it’s theirs to say.

People ask her why she’s quieter now. Why her laughter has edges. Why she flinches at kindness like it might bite.

They don’t know she’s been buried alive in her own skin. That some nights, the weight of being touched without permission still sits on her chest like a tombstone. That “no” didn’t mean anything in that room. That she screamed in a voice so loud, only she could hear it.

She tried to tell someone, but she’s learned that truth, spoken by a woman, is always on trial.

[biskyistyping]

Misaligned

It’s funny how we all want the same, but not quite— Like a tug of war under dimmed moonlight. I pull you closer, you pull away, A step to the left, you drift the other way. Still, somehow, We move like we’re dancing in the night.

[biskyistyping]

Amplified

It felt like hearing your favorite song from another room—faint, elusive, but enough to pull your attention completely. It’s the quiet ache of a thought returning uninvited, the way a single moment with them echoes louder than a hundred with anyone else. You move through your days with a kind of tuned-in awareness, as if the air itself might carry their presence. Everything they say feels like a clue, and even silence hums with possibility. It’s not love exactly, but the thrilling, disorienting sense that it might be—if only you could get a little closer.

[biskyistyping]

Hoy

Sing-rupok ng kahoy na inaanay na, Oo na, sige na Boses mong 'di nila kayang gayahin Tutuloy ko pa ba? Isang tawag mo lang, kinakabahan na.

Ako si Popoy, ikaw si Basha— Inipon kong lakas, ikaw ang nag-aksaya. Pakisagot lahat ng tanong ko, Makikinig ako— Nandiyan ka pa ba?

[biskyistyping]

Teetering

Caught in that strange in-between—too savvy to dive headfirst into the chaos without a second thought, yet stubborn enough to believe the plot twist is still worth waiting for. It’s like standing on the edge of a rollercoaster, eyes wide open, fully aware of the drops and turns, but clutching the safety bar with a grin that says, “Bring it on.” Too sharp to be fooled, too hopeful to quit—the perfect recipe for a life that’s messy, unpredictable, and utterly impossible to stop watching.

[biskyistyping]

COLORS

Your painting never felt finished; you wonder why the canvas seemed to whisper of something just out of reach. It’s because I was the color you were missing—the vibrant shade that could’ve brought your vision to life, the contrast that made everything else sing. Without me, your masterpiece lingered in half-light, yearning for the spark only I could provide, the brushstroke that would turn silence into symphony. Maybe one day you’ll see that the palette was never truly complete until our colors collided.

[biskyistyping]

Sexy

Do you know what I truly find magnetic? Intelligence—the kind that sparks like wildfire in conversation, that dances effortlessly between wit and wisdom. It’s in the way a man speaks, not just with words, but with depth that makes you lean in closer, heart quickening, mind captivated. When he challenges your thoughts, when his curiosity pulls you into new worlds, you can’t help but admire him—not just for what he says, but for the sharpness behind every glance and the confidence in every pause. That’s the kind of allure that leaves a lasting impression, long after the words have faded.

[biskyistyping]

LIMIT

He raised an eyebrow, incredulous that someone well past their twenties could still lose themselves in pixelated battles and virtual quests. I just grinned, knowing full well how society loves to slap deadlines on joy while letting foolishness run wild without curfew.

Some pleasures defy the ticking clock—those stolen moments of laughter, flights of fancy, and quiet acts of defiance that refuse to be neatly filed away or labeled ‘grown-up’ or ‘childish.’ They simply exist, timeless and untamed, reminding us that some parts of the soul resist being aged out.

[biskyistyping]

SURVIVAL

You ask what I’ve been doing all this time, as if simply holding myself together wasn’t already a full-time job. Like it’s some casual pastime or a simple tick on a checklist. But every breath I drew was a battle, every dawn a quiet victory against the weight of silence and the shadows that tried to claim me. I wasn’t just existing—I was weaving strength from the cracks, gathering fragments of hope in the dark, and learning to dance on the edge of despair, all while pretending it was just another day.

[biskyistyping]

Eggshells

It feels like wading through a minefield of my own making—each word, each breath, a careful calculation, a desperate plea for grace. My pulse quickens in your presence, not from fear, but from the weight of wanting everything to stay whole. You don’t know it, but I rehearse the smallest moments with you like lines in a play I’m terrified to forget.

I stay because the sound of silence in your absence would ring louder than all the noise my anxiety could ever make. I'd rather my hands tremble beside yours than steady themselves in a world without your laughter, your gaze, your impossible nearness.

It feels like balancing on glass, barefoot, praying each step won't leave a scar. So I keep walking, careful and raw, because I’d rather die of nervousness with you beside me than die of anxiousness imagining a life where you are not.

[biskyistyping]

Vow

Let me hold you, my love. I'll kiss your eyes while you sleep, Trace the lines of your face so I never forget.

I'll hold your hand like my life depends on it, Embrace you in the most unexpected moments, And say I love you more often— because I never know if tomorrow will still have you in it.

I'll choose you every single day: On quiet Tuesdays and life-changing nights, Whether you're near or far.

Because love— real love— isn't one grand gesture, but a thousand quiet choices made again and again.

So let me hold you, And then hold you once more, For as long as there’s breath in me.

[biskyistyping]

Cue

I fought the urge like battling a thousand soldiers, swords cut through skin Torn between glancing one more time or ending everything. Confused whether to dodge the bullets or stand still, And I thought to myself, please light the candle or wave the flag— One signal from the tower and I’d set down my bag.

A flicker in the distance, a quiet, steady gleam, Would pull me through the silence like the softest dream. No need for grand gestures, no battle cry to drag— Just one gentle sign to guide me through the fog.