perhaps—its a comet

And its seems to me that I've lied—I lived.

for more than months, than what I've scheduled to:

past the August's candles that was meant to be lit up

at parking lot of the mall, near at my school for they've closed it off now

past the September's birthday gift for my father

to grant him one year older, for he'd wished to lose the entirety of mine

past the October's lost thursdays, as my class has been rescheduled

past the afternoon will it have where I'm off sitting at some locked room,

alone, bearing my poetry book that bears my sparing gust of me

until my fingers turn numb and cold for and lose any grip of it

past those vivid daydreams of wanted withdrawals

that always come as afterthoughts to those days I have seemed lived—seemed lied.

between places I concluded my memories in

I'd given more.

that memorized corridor of the said mall

where our feet have gone march in rhythm as our arms coalesced

that game arcade inside that I started to bet my life too,

instead of my usual languishing

that KTV area that seems freed the songs from our head

for some to belt them out or just lull us for once

and that stealthy snuck of tokens from a belt bag of a new friend who works there

that made it possible to play

for free

made it possible for me to share that arches of mouths

that transgresses to eyes they have for the things I haven't had before

tours in musuem,

train stations

movie tickets,

endless intimate colloquies

those balmy hands I've been with holding these last 90 days of deferment

that made my poems seems like lies or pity parties

for I have chosen to live

to have tuned out the creaks of an exit door I've called, for a while

under the noise of seldom camaraderies

how could I deny it

it was bigger than before

more apparent that it can almost make me believe

tomorrow I can wake it without a guilt of cheating death

that it is a glimpse of an imagined life of what should I've been

its just baffling to think about

how ever since that promised departure of mine

fate seems doing its greatest foolery again, that I only known it for

as if it trying convince me to wreck my plans, stay for more than I can

as if he'll be my man—but I've seen this dance before

and I can tell the last steps would kill me without release

in that case I have lived a million—or never at all

but perhaps I'm wrong to villified it again

perhaps it listened to each signal Morse of misery

perhaps it its parting gift, apologetic one or reprieve

perhaps the beam that lit up my sunless skies was from a comet

or perhaps a conning asteroid passing above me

right before it extinct the rogue planet I was born into

with pupils without sight

with feet without joints

with mind made of heart

in just matter of its slowest pace and fastest hundred days

and if thats so I'll gladly take it.

longer or whatsover

I have to live so I can die

and I hope that death would be mine

for once fate wouldn't interfere

for once with release, with truth