Because...

...it's been a long time since I posted a poem. ^_^

Sunlight and pine and aftershave
And heady notes of something quite recognisable
- but not at all familiar.
“You’ve changed scents,” I remark quietly,
And you afford me a small smile
As your pale lips meet with the ceramic brim
Of this morning’s cup of Earl Grey.
(You’ve given up drinking coffee, I see.)
“Tom Ford, Gray Vetiver.” You answer softly
And then add “Do you like it?”
I do not know why,
But for some reason I do not reply.

I wearily eye the lone fleur-de-lis
On your black, wool-lined leather jacket
(I thought you hated the color black?)
And I heave a long sigh.
You are like your home, St-Isidore, now -
Cold, distant, somewhat detached.
I feel as though I no longer know you
When not too long ago we were nearly inseparable.
You had your reasons;
A closed fracture in summer and then a cold;
Your cousin’s death a few months ago.
There was college last fall,
And now your work.

I fail to stifle a bitter laugh
As I ponder about how rime seemed to have formed
Just when I though that the sunlight in Montreal
Would banish the last traces of St-Isidore’s frost.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
“Nothing,” say I, “just that you’re wearing
a black jacket; I thought you hated black.”
You go on to explain
How you felt artistically enlightened,
- perhaps even liberated -
By the bleak purity that you heard in a song
And later teased out with your fingers
(“Exodus, by Maksim. I play the piano now.”)
Leading you to the symbolic decision
To wear black.

I pore over how much has changed
As helplessness gnaws at my forgotten tongue.
I no longer know you.
Not that I find you to be at fault;
Three oceans keep Manila and Montreal apart.
It’s just that I remember
How we used to walked together
Kicking up orange leaves as we went.
You would give me a smile
Illuminated in the late afternoon’s wan sun
And all else would be a blur.
Back then I would wonder
How long our footprints would grace the grass
Before they became someone else’s.
(That time seems to have come, sadly.)

Sunlight and pine and aftershave
And heady notes of something quite recognisable
- but not at all familiar.
“I guess things have changed,” I remark quietly.
You afford me a small smile,
As your pale hand reaches to your chest
To pull back the right lapel
Of your black, wool-lined leather jacket
And reveal a small crucifix
Hanging from the golden chain around your neck.
I catch my breath – it’s the one that I gave you
Not too long ago, before you returned to your home
Of frigid French streets
And flags of four fleur-de-lys.
“Some things don’t change.” you answer softly.
And this time no one needs a reply.

*** Made for CW 10, so needless to say, it's creative writing (or at least it's supposed to be) and this isn't the least bit drawn from any actual experience.

The title, I decided, should be a French word given all the references to Montreal and Quebec, and when I think 'French' you know who I think of first. ^_^

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I am Dead.

Today I finally got my grad pics.

It would have been great, if it were not for the fact that I might not graduate this school year at all, thanks to International Economics.

Oh, Econ 141, why do you have to be so difficult?

Oh, Ma’am Carlos, why do you have to give right minus wrong exams?

Oh, Lord, why do I suck at Econ so much?

I am dead. I am so dead.

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DotA, par Cinq Man

Literally DotA, through five men. In French because I suddenly missed Georges St-Pierre’s boyish smile and I would like to reaffirm my fangirlism to the guy with possibly the most gorgeous blue eyes in the world. He doesn’t play DotA, but I do and this is my blog so run along. ^_^

***
DotA, par Cinq Man

Lawi is the gentleman.

He has no qualms about harassing enemy heroes away, even taking in substantial damage from enemy heroes if he has to, just to save her sorry ass whenever she gets in trouble. He is usually able to save her because he’s that good at this game, but sometimes he can’t take all of the heat alone and she dies despite his rescue efforts; whenever that happens, he always apologizes to her, as if her death was his fault for not being a good enough lane mate instead of her fault for being a lousy DotA player. He does his best to give her instructions about what to do while the game is ongoing, and whenever she makes mistakes (and a lot of them too), he just teases her with a single exclamation of “Fail!” and then he lets it go.

Two hours later, when they are in the cab or jeep on the way home, he will patiently explain what she was doing wrong and how she should do things next time.

Archer is the honest guy.

And brutally so. Unlike Lawi, whenever she makes mistakes – a late stun, a late ultimate, a late escape – he does not hold back from telling her how pitifully exasperating her DotA gameplay is. He gives him instructions too, but one mistake later the whole internet café gets a loud earful about how weak her play is. His rants usually go on until someone else makes a mistake, and then he rants about that other player. It’s okay though, because she appreciates the fact that Archer treats her the same way he treats all his team mates, giving her none of the ‘she’s a girl, gotta be gentle with her’ crap. Besides, he is also usually the first one to point it out whenever she’s doing well or she ended up first in the Stats for a change.

He is also the first guy to talk to her about jerking off without the use of Marco Lansangan’s chemical metaphors or Rex Dizon’s ‘this-is-officially-an-awkward-conversation’ dismissal.

Bong is the quiet one.

They’ve never been early-game lane mates. He usually goes to ‘taas’ or ‘mid’ while she never goes anywhere but ‘baba’. They seldom take on enemy heroes together in mid-game as well because they perfectly accept the fact that it’s easier to kill when one is with Lawi or Archer. Bong does not give her instructions about what to do like Lawi or makes fun of her game play like Archer. He won’t say anything when they get together in a lane, but he will be cooperative when she tells him that she wants them to try killing one of the enemies; he will do his best to nuke with her, but it usually won’t work anyway. In the end they will retreat together, and throughout all this he seldom says anything.

In fact, even when he was already angry at her for giving away one of his Christmas gifts to her, and to his own room mate nonetheless, Bong never said anything.

Buduy is the reckless bloke.

He will go in anytime, all the time, no matter if it’s ten seconds, ten minutes or ten kills into the game, no matter how many or who are the enemy heroes in the lane. They’ve been early-game lane mates four times, and during all those times he was first blood. She could only watch in amazement as the guy charged forward, blatantly disregarding the fact that the green bar on top of his character’s head is quickly turning to orange and then yellow and then red, and the next thing she knows, she’s alone in their lane. Sure, Buduy tries to be supportive, taking in the heat so she’s free to rain skills on the enemies, but there really isn’t much that she can do when her lane mate is dead or running back home.

Her fondest DotA memory will always be that game when Buduy was killed by neutral creeps, of all things. Lawi and Archer have since joined the club, but the original is always the best.

Kuya Caltrops is the team-completer.

When she first started playing DotA she didn’t really like going to his shop; it was small, gritty and there were too many gamer guys who erupted into frenzied trash-talks or ally-tripping every few minutes. However, each visit there he grew from merely civil to actually friendly towards her and the team. Now they’re actually chummy and Caltrops doesn’t seem like such a bad place anymore. Now her usually day-ender is the sight of Kuya Caltrops’ curly hair.

And as long as she has this team, DotA will always be something to look forward to.

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Himitsu

She made her way through the corridors of the Faculty Center in long, rushed, brash strides, the rest of the world seemingly unimportant as she hastened to get to the last room down the Political Science Department. She was tired and breathing heavily by the time she got there, but that was exactly the point – she had to look like she hurried, or at least she had to look flushed.

She didn’t even have to look for him. He just got out of the room when she saw him.

“Hi,” she said faintly as she caught up with him, pausing to catch her breath before offering an apologetic smile. “I’m from Naval’s 177…”

“Yeah, I remember you.” He replies, politely returning the smile. “What’s the matter?”

She bit her lower lip briefly before she went red in the face and told him what she was there for.

But he didn’t react the way she expected him to. Instead, he merely adjusted his glasses, owning all the indifference in the world.

“So… what do you want to do?”

She was slightly stunned by his answer. It was the fourth time she dared to do something like that, but it was the first time that someone asked her that, or any other question for that matter. The first two times she did it was at Math 17, and everything went on smoothly with her instructor. The third time was at Econ 106, and even that nosy proctor was not the least bit reluctant.

She certainly did not expect that this proctor from Polsci would drag it out. 

“So what do you want to do?” he repeated, but there was a swagger in his voice that told her it wasn’t a question.

You have very expressive eyes, and they’re very convincing, Jaime Naval had told her once. She cleared her throat as she decided that if Naval was telling the truth, she might as well use them in Naval’s own subject, right?

She gave him a telltale glance, her smile turning from apologetic to challenging. Your call.

He looked at her for a full second before he gave it up.

“Follow me,” he said, smirking as he took out a bunch of keys from his pocket and began rambling something about how she should be thankful that she got to him before he left the building.

He opened the door to let her into Jaime Naval’s room, closing the door as quickly as he opened it. He stood by the table for a few moments before he said “Okay” and mumbled a permission.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

By the time she was done, his phone was ringing. She could not help the amused smile on her face as she watched him fumble around the piece of technology that was tethered to the lanyard around his neck anyway. It took him a good ten seconds to answer the call, and she was all the more amused when she heard him speak. She wondered why the spontaneous Polsci geek was suddenly stuttering.

She waved her hand to catch his attention, and when their eyes met she briefly mouthed the word “Thanks” before turning around to leave. But she heard him call her out just as she was about to turn the door knob.

“Wait!”

She turned to look back at him. He had one hand covering the phone’s receiver, and idly she wondered how much trouble he would be in if the caller had turned out to be Professor Jaime Naval himself.

“Just… don’t tell your classmates about it, okay?”

She had to look away to stifle her laughter.

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Ode to Pauline

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. I would walk back to Kamia after my Geography class, and about the same time I get out of AS, a maroon Ford Ranger would be parking in front of Bio.

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. I would continue walking back to my dorm while Max steps out of the Ranger. A girl, who I suppose would be Bea, would soon follow; Max would have his hand on her shoulder as they walk towards the building that I just got out of.

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. Max would see me and I would see him, and for a moment we would look somewhere else - him at Bea and I at my watch - and pretend that we didn’t see each other. It’s not until we’re just a few steps in front of each other that we would actually acknowledge one other.

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. “Hey,” Max would say. “Hi, Max.” I would reply. Sometimes we’d wave at each other, other times a nod would suffice. I told you, I was never really against Max. I even told you once that he was nice, remember? And I swear, that has nothing to do with the fact that he is Solis’ fraternity brother.

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. I would immediately look away again, and Max would draw Bea closer. I never talk to Bea. I never even look at Bea. Sometimes I wonder if she asks Max who I am afterwards, and sometimes I wonder what Max says.

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. I’d think of you as I draw closer to my dorm. Sometimes I fish my phone out of my pocket and send you a message, but I never tell you about Max or Bea – edit – Max and Bea – because it doesn’t feel right. I’d think about how you might be doing now, back in Davao. I think about what might happen when you come back next semester and it’s your turn to see Max and Bea.

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. I’d reach my room, put my bag on the table and plop on the bed. I would tell myself to stop thinking about you and Max and Bea. I mean, in all fairness to you, it’s not my problem that you fell for that guy and you fell for him a bit too hard. In all fairness to Max, he’s still nice to me despite the fact that the only reason why we know each other is because you used to be together – wait, you were never together because he didn’t want a commitment, right, so let’s change that to because he used to fuck you. In all fairness to Bea, I know her only from the stories you tell so I shouldn’t really judge.

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. I would stare at the ceiling and remember what I told you in the letter I gave you before you left two summers ago. “I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” I told you bluntly. “I don’t want a friend who knows me only when she needs a shoulder to cry on because she and Max had a fight, and completely takes me for granted otherwise.”

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine. And I realize that no matter how I tell myself that I have no business thinking about the hurt you might feel if you see them when you come back next sem, it doesn’t really work. I’m still worried for you.

By now, it has become somewhat like a routine.

I guess I still care for you.

I guess you’re still my friend.

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Ode to Lawi

Bilang lagi kang naglu-lurk sa Agu-blogs at di pa kita nagagawan ng ode.

***
legolas pwned Templar Assassin’s head for 260 gold! Assist: fayul
legolas pwned Shadow Fiend’s head for 255 gold! Assist: fayul
legolas has double kill!
legolas pwned Witch Doctor’s head for 255 gold! Assist: fayul
legolas has triple kill!
legolas is godlike!

“Wait, anong nangyari?!” she exclaims, moving closer to the computer screen in confusion (The effects of Mjollnir and Hyperstone in the inventory at the same time, apparently.) “Hindi pa man ako nakakapag Laguna Blade!”

“Triple kill ka na.” he informs her calmly.

And then he turns exasperatedly to the guy next to him. “Dana, tinangke ko lahat yon.”

***
“Hoy.” She says, poking his leg.

He does not move. His shoulders just slouch a little lower, his back against one of the columns at AS steps. He won the vice-presidency of their organization merely a few minutes ago, so you’d think that he could be in a better mood.

But he is not. He just clutches his silent phone tighter and stares off to some distance that only he knows about – some distance far, far away that only he will ever know about.

She offers him a smile as she sits down next to him. “Wag ka nang sad. Girls don’t buy gifts for strangers. When a girl buys you a gift, it means you’re special.”

He looks up at her. His eyes are as hollow as… she doesn’t know. Hollow blocks?

“Kainis kase e…” he mutters.

She shrugs. Oh well. Boys will be boys.

***
“Yun nga yung gusto kong sabihin, binigay ko sayo yon kaya bakit mo ibibigay sa kanya?” her orgmate says… well, not exactly grudgingly, but yeah, somewhat grudgingly.

“Kase hiningi nya. Yun lang naman ang binigay ko, I kept everything else di ba?” she replies… well, not exactly defensively, but yeah, somewhat defensively.

Her orgmate sighs. “Hindi lang naman yon e. Akala ko close na tayo tapos bigla mong sasabihin na hindi tayo close.”

“Para sakin hindi naman talaga tayo close that time e.” she shoots back.

“Ganito kase,” He suddenly interrupts the… uh, for the lack of a better word, conversation. He puts on the Listen-To-Me-Because-For-Once-I’m-Actually-Serious-About-This face as he turns to her and says, “Di ba sabi mo sakin pag binigyan ka ng regalo, ibig sabihin special ka?”

She glares at him incredulously. Oh no you didn’t just shoot me with my own gun.

***
“Ah eto si Lawi, feeling ko magaling ang vocabulary nito.” Their senior orgmate says with a smirk. “Fellatio?”

“Blowjob.” He answers correctly.

“Coitus interruptus?”

“Interruptus… withdrawal.”

“BDSM?” she cuts in.

“Uh, alam ko yan!” their elfin orgmate exclaims. “Bondage, Dominance, Sadism…”

“Mali!” she says gleefully. “Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, ”

“ – Dominance, Submission, Sadism, Masochism.” He finishes for her. “Ba’t alam mo?”

“Nag PanPil 19 ako.” She answers. And then it’s her turn to ask. “Ikaw, ba’t alam mo?”

He grins. “Kakasearch sa net.”

“Nang?”

He just grins.

***
“What the – ” he says when the car suddenly comes to a halt.

Right in the middle of a rice field in Magliman.

“Shit.” She says as she gets out of the car only to horribly find out that the right back tire had fallen into a trough, leaving them stuck in a freakin’ rice padde in the middle of… somewhere.

Good thing two kind-hearted farmers approach them and help them out. They do their best push the car while instructing her to drive just with enough speed and force to get the wheel out of the gutter, which she almost fails to do because it takes her a good few seconds to realize that revving on the engine will not do anything when the stick is in neutral. Still, it doesn’t take too long before everything is okay again.

He gets back into the car, slamming the door as he closes it.

“What?” she asks.

He stares off at the miles and miles of green rice paddies in front of them. “Dana, pati ba naman sasakyan diniditch ako?!”

She laughs as she steps on the gas pedal and drives off.

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Secondhand Listerine

“Stop it.” She snaps irately, brows furrowing together as she pulled her bag’s zipper close.

“Stop what?” he asks, though he very well knows what she means. After all, only three things in this world annoy her enough for her to demand that they stop – the self-righteous rants and raves of that Paul guy from her PI 100 class, guy (meaning porn) talk, and foot tapping. (The last partly because a perverted orgmate once told her that foot tapping is a form of masturbation.)

“Tapping your foot. It’s annoying.” (See, he was right.)

He shrugs. “I’m bored.”

“That’s not my problem.” She retorts.

“Have any entertainment ideas?” he asks, determined to annoy her since he had begun to do so without meaning to and was really bored, anyway.

“Do I look like a TV to you?” came the answer, voice laced with annoyance.

“You don’t have to be bitchy.” He shoots back, feigning an offended expression.

“I am not bitchy.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You’re acting imbecilic.”

“You didn’t just say that.”

“Oh, but I did. And – ”

Thud. An “Ow!” follows as he knocks her back against the wall, hard enough to bruise.

“What the –” she groans, but she suddenly shuts up because she realizes that he is suddenly close. Too close.

“Told you you just didn’t say that.” He says conceitedly, lips curling into a grin as he slowly draws his face closer to hers.

She swallows weakly, throat as dry as her chapped lips, while wondering where the hell all her bitchiness went to. Out of her mouth and into his ego, apparently. This is one of his games, the brat is keeping himself amused again. He may have caught her off guard, but she’s not one to give control up easily, sorry.

She smirks as she looks at him straight in the eye. Two can play this game and she is calling his bluff.

His grin widens when he sees her smirk, and he continues to close the distance between their faces. Boy, isn’t this better than bantering? He can feel the warmth of her heavy breath as the few inches that keep them apart shrink to centimeters –

“Yeah here we go for the hundredth time, hand grenade pins in every line. Throw em up and let something shine, goin’ out of my fucking mind...”

Linkin Park’s Bleed It Out suddenly fills the air as something vibrates on the table nearby. Incoming call alert.

She looks down at her ringing phone on the table. The caller does not appear to be registered in her contacts and she can only see its first few digits (0-9-1-7-8-8-1… is that next number a 7?) but she recognizes it anyway. It must be another one of her perverted former orgmates.

She turns her eyes on him again, and her skin almost tingles as she feels his breath on her nose.

“Aren’t you… gonna to take that?” he drawls haughtily, pulling back so she could have a bit more space to move through in case she did take the call.

She lets out a soundless breath of relief for the newfound space and then bites her lip down as she thinks. The phone continues to ring, but she ignores it and just keeps staring at him, wanting oh-so desperately to wipe that grin off his face. If it is indeed her former orgmate, he’s just going to ask if she wants to meet up for coffee. She’d just call her former orgmate tomorrow and make up some story about why she didn’t answer.

She smirks at him again. “That guy’s gonna ask if I want to go to Starbucks, but I’m really in the mood for an almond mocha right now.”

Because this afternoon, she’s craving for the taste of second-hand Listerine.

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