Jamie Delos Reyes

I was seven when I first learned
That there is a kind of dirty that cannot be washed away

It’s a curious thing, how technology has transformed the way we say goodbye. I wonder if it’s still possible to truly forget and let go when it only takes an instant to access the online scrapbooks of everything that has gone before.

Sometimes, when I tell her “I love you too,” I am not sure if I’m not still saying it to you.

Don’t call me your lover. I don’t need you to promise forever. Just try your best, love, and it will be enough.

Maybe I could love you just a little more than a lot. Maybe I could do that when I don’t know too much.

It was tough love at its finest.

“Goodbye.” It’s been six years and I still can’t spell that word with the letters of your name.

I heard him ask for the drill and I heard it buzzing, but I didn’t feel anything. I remember that because I woke up two hours into my surgery with three hours more to go.

Sometimes you’re home and sometimes you’re a war zone.

You are hope and sadness and betrayal. You are coldness and emotion. You are forgiveness and absolution.

His time was running out.

Like if I happen to mess up hard the previous day, I’ll still have all the chances in the world to make things right when I wake up.