Drive

Do you know what I want right now, my lad? I long for a car ride with you: you driving me to The Coffee Club, where we would lounge for hours, and you’d talk aimlessly, and I would heed with an undying admiration to everything you say because how can one not love your chatter?

 

When you talk, it’s as if you’re perfuming the atmosphere with every utterance. My lad, it’s stupid to say this out loud but I love it when you drive me places even when I can drive myself. And though you love to speed when you’re driving alone, you drive meticulously when I’m with you; I appreciate that a lot. I just love it when you drive me anywhere.

 

It’s stupid to say out loud but there’s this sense of protection and nurturing I feel when you say: “No, no. Allow me. I insist,” and you take the car keys from my hands. “I don’t want to trouble you,” you say.

 

You know, in between the journey, I love to sneak glances of you as you drive, one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand holding mine gently. It’s almost as if I find it attractive. I am pretty sure it’s a universal feeling: every girl finds her man dreamy behind the wheel. You’re so cute when you drive, my lad.

 

And when you park your car in reverse and you get it right from the first try, I am just in awe of it all. Two hours down the road and I ask you if you’d like to switch turns, and you gasp as if I offended you. You say you don’t want to trouble me… that’s so.. how do I say it… manly of you? Charming? Maybe charming is the word.

 

And you’re always up for anything. Anything. I casually mention that the moon is dressed in full glory, and you pull over immediately. You seat me at the back of your truck and we’d gaze at the stars as if we’re seeing them for the first time.

 

And any idea that pops in my head, whether feeble, stupid, or unattainable, you’d want to make it happen regardless. I tell you that I crave some sunflowers in our garden. You pull over at the supermarket and I think to myself that maybe you’re thirsty for some refreshments. I eagerly open the grocery bag to see what snacks you got us only to find a wrap of sunflower seeds.

“You didn’t!!”

“I did!”

 

I know that what makes my heart flutter might sound simple to you, but you actually listened to my desires regardless. You care for me. You’re too precious to me, my lad. Do you know that?

 

I love it when you drive me anywhere.

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Forget-me-not

No, stop! Stop it this instance! And implore the tulip to stop lending me her tint of blush when you are far afield! Why is my skin flushing all hues of crimson when it’s not your season?

 

Enough! If my brain would just cease imagining verses from the nineteenth century as if they were dedicated from you, written by you, solely for me, when you don’t even know I exist; you don’t know when I bloom. I am here, an insignificant forget-me-not waiting to be plucked by no one but you.

 

A few kind words from you quicken the beats of my heart, and my petals shiver to your softness. I don’t do too well with words, and you know that; every word you utter, my dear, sounds like a serenade.

 

It’s unjust to endure a fondness to a human who will never exchange the same fervency because his eyes would always swim toward the fields of marigold.

 

But forget me not.

Chasing daffodils

Let me tell you the tale of a daisy who fell madly in love with a daffodil. Both blooms of springtime, it was only a matter of fate and sweet timing that made their whites and yellows flourish in secrecy.

 

As the sunlit daffodil with its two-toned petals peeked behind the bushes, the coy daisy was quick to blush. The April floweret kept her fancy a secret, but her leaves confessed, and oh, the March bud knew.

 

The narcissus was bountiful too; for the daisy, he laid delicate petals across the path for her to tread without harm. The honeyed daffodil kept the daisy’s yearning at bay as he perfumed the meadow with a mist of demureness. How dare one’s urges tread far when the daffodil’s purity compelled nothing but honor and decency?

 

Oftentimes, the daisy finds herself immersed in his golden seas, that she too, beams gold. They were two fallen stars competing in their warmth, but the daisy admitted that the narcissus had an amiability that won the crowd’s heart every time.

 

The daisy continues to chase the daffodil, seeking nothing but to cultivate, like him, in soils of kindness and gentility. A flower so pure, the floweret was saturated in the narcissus’s embrace, and it was then known why every poet raves about the golden daffodil.

Burden me, my lad

Burden me, my lad. The Lord gave me ears exclusively for that matter. What is it that’s taking your focus away from my passionate eyes? I seek not an attention undivided, but I am used to a zeal sparkling in your eyes, but tonight it’s vanished.

 

And I care not for the spark to return so that you’d gaze into my eyes with familiarity, though I can be selfish; I ask of you to speak so that your burden becomes mine. Let it be split between two hearts instead of one. And you can trust in your confidant in keeping your words sealed by wax. Burden me, my lad.

 

Should you wish to have me carry it all in my exiguous heart, I would surely make room in my heart, if it meant yours would be vacant. It hurts seeing you immobile, existing just by flesh with a mind wandering elsewhere.

 

It’s not your gaze, I seek. I want to escort the daffodils growing behind my ribcage to yours. I want love to sojourn the chambers of your soul without you having to question its extraneous visit. You deserve the love, my lad, you do.

 

I ask of you to see my soul as your sea, where you can dump your secrets in its bottomless well. There’s this loudness in your silence that I could not pretend to be deafened to. I hear it in your steps, your stirring of a cup, your sighs. It’s a worrisome silence, my lad; speak to me.

O Gardener

O gardener—whose fond hands put the lilies to sleep—allow me a summer with you. I heard the villagers say you carry tales of farmers who were on this earth before you, and I’d love to be your sunflower.

 

O noble gardener, I am envious of the way your garden is drenched with your love. I can hear the desert rose humming softly upon feeling your presence in her air. The vine leaves dance with the wind, fondling her green on your pale white. What gracious face you have.

 

And what patience you have, gentle farmer, as you await the tree to bear its lemons. You crush the leaf, saturating your wistful heart with the citrus smell, reminding yourself that beauty is worth the wait.

 

Nature noticed the way your eyes gleam upon the sight of the daffodil, and she sighs in harmony. For she, too, was enamored by its golden petals that declared the birth of spring.

 

O gardener, talk to me of the rose and her cultivation. Teach my inept hands how to pluck the flower without disrupting nature in her sleep. I’ll work for you until the season bids me adieu, and you can pay the deed in roses; I’ll pay mine in verse.

Tenderfoot

Artist: Puung // http://www.grafolio.com/puuung1

In March, it’ll be officially a year since I introduced my spring muse to my readers. A year later, and my feelings for him are still humble and pure. May I bore you with one more heart dump?

 

He has buds for lips. He has eyes laden with purity, and generosity runs through his blue veins. Were I to describe his heart’s color, I’d say it’s pastel-hued. I cannot process how one could converse with him without secretly fancying him, or maybe that’s just my lack of discipline?

 

I just want to take refuge in his arms, the safest place on earth. I seek a perpetual embrace for all the times my heart broke over an ill word or a mistreatment. I want to be babied and pampered by him. I want his kiss tattooed on my hands.

 

My spring is made of blooms and buds that are known for their enviable innocence. His kindness puts mine to shame… to shame. If people were to praise my empathy, what would they say of his? My tenderfoot speaks to me in a manner so refined that I cannot hold myself from silencing my urges.

 

But they’re innocent urges, I promise. That’s what falling for a flower does to your soul: it softens you. It… softens you.

The Harbor

Something about you screams “FUTURE.” All of my piled-up concerns just get swept off to the side of the road, and my path is clear of dust and dreg. I find that my fears are slowly evaporating, and the future that I was always so tensed about no longer scares me.

 

It’s as if a future with you, is a future guaranteed, which is mind-boggling to say out loud because almost nothing in this world is certain, but you… you’re the anchor to my rampant ship. You steady me.

 

And I know, I know. It’s all in my head, and this is what happens when you catch feelings for someone, but.. heck even I can’t form decent sentences here….

 

I suddenly cannot write like I normally do because I don’t want to admit; I don’t want to capture this moment for eternity and yell my emotions to the public when I’m supposed to go back to keeping a diary.

 

But I promise you, my sentiments for you are always pure. I take a stroll down the harbor, with the sun dressed in peach, and the first thought that rushes to my head is: I wish you were here. I mean I would assume you would appreciate corny sunsets and coffee in the PM as much I do, but who knows…

 

Is this a letter now? Alright. Uhhh…

 

I promise you that I do write, and I have international readers, and… dang it. You won’t read this, would you?

 

I don’t know. I don’t know… Something about you makes me wishful for the tomorrow that I lost all hope for.