…Or grow old.
Hindi pa rin pala ako nagbabago.
Those hands I didn’t get the chance to hold. Do they sweat when you’re nervous? Lucky for your sharp knife to be wrapped around your fingers when they make love before lunchtime. And the garlic stains that tried to get in the way to your trimmed nails. Those hands that held the spoon that carried the food to your ex’s mouth every breakfast in bed.
Those hands. That I didn’t get the chance to feel. When I desperately long for a massage when days were heavy. That could have held the soap I wished ran through my back when I was too lame to call it a day. The softness of those hands remained a wonder.
How do you sound when you’re angry? Does your voice tremble like a child stripped of his innocence? You must sound so sweet when you’re happy. Each time you say you were, I knew I could defy gravity just to hear that whisper, gently laid upon my empty ears.
Your voice. I never got to hear them. Such pity.
What could be the sound of shower on your fair skin? Are they like the rustles of dead leaves that I playfully love to step on during a quiet walk along that deserted street? Your skin, I never got to feel.
And those eyes. That I saw from somewhere the sad longing to stay away from my gaze. The useless chants of arrows that struck them, bleeding until they see no more. Wishing they wouldn’t see me anymore.
Your anatomy. Your whole. I never had them. Like the songs I never wrote but wished I had. Or captured beauty of something that was never blinding.
There you were. On your back, inertia of my soul. I never had you. Like mystery.