I guess if it wasn’t for those few
seconds that night would I come back to this place, or at least we do when we
travel back and fail at the first step. But, has it been seven years—eight? Too
long and too far I could forget what it meant and how that look locked us and
until now I couldn’t look away. I could almost forget how you looked like, in that
dress, was it black or red—wait—was it even a dress? Was your hair just an inch
above your elbow? Maybe no. I could only remember how you tuck your hair behind
your ears before taking the first sip. Honestly, I couldn’t remember.
I guess I could only guess and
guess and guess: Guess how things could turn out before the second everything
would snap out.
But was it because of that look would I
come back to this bar seven or eight years later? Full of lost people, drunk to
even know where the exit. Or was it the aftermath after another aftermath and
another would pull my feet back to this place, on this seat, and redo the tiny
details: drag a cigarette and clench a bottle of beer while I search you on an
entirely new set up of crowd just to see the empty gaps you left on that space
waiting someone to fill in, eight years later. Was it? And no matter how many
people you fill into that space, it wouldn’t be the same. But as the alcohol
burn my throat, reality would kick in, the beat drops wailing from the stereo would
remind me that memories are like songs, too, composed of unique melodies and
impromptu lyrics—except you run past my mind as a playlist of songs—on repeat—at
the same time; I couldn’t understand a thing.
But the truth is: I would never
understand a thing, nor have I understood the details, which stand for us. I couldn’t even understand why I
could almost forget the first night, at this bar: The smoke. The crowd. The
noise. My head spinning to your perspective. My gaze, pulled to meet you half way
and that cigarette burnt half way where my words run. Were you half way to meet
me before I could even step on your feet? Wouldn’t we be able to meet if it
didn’t happen? Until now I couldn’t find the words to say if we only let our
eyes speak for us. Until now, seven, or eight years later, I couldn’t say sorry,
or say sorry enough that I couldn’t save anything, let alone save you. I could
almost forget how we took those days, seven—eight years ago for granted.
I could almost forget. But no
matter how fast I drink the bottles down, smoke the cigarettes up and allow the
alcohol and the nicotine dub me and numb me, I wouldn’t forget the first scene,
at this bar, on this corner, now being role-played by a completely new set up
of people: a new set up of people you call barkada,
but a different version. And a
girl in front of me whom I call mine,
who addresses me the same. Eyes that never waver. Hair that falls back and a
smile fixed on her face: Your complete opposite—now takes every gaps and spaces
you left—unconsciously playing the lead. I couldn’t exactly remember when you
fixed that smile, for me, only for me. When in truth, you never did. She’s
careful when you were careless. She’s composed of smiles when you were all
scrunched up. And she plays you in the opposite way possible. But she’s
beautiful; the best kind of beautiful.
You
were not.
I could almost forget how
destructive that look hit me: a truck full of fireworks only to crash and burn,
you’ll see nothing but a destructive kind of beautiful. Untouchable. Good for
nothing but only for eyes to remember. I could almost forget how I could only
stand in that corner and watch you burn, when in fact, I’m the one burning.
Strange how I could almost forget your face and that look you gave me and the
nights you still occupy this space. I
could almost forget, and I wanted to. Was it seven or eight years not enough? Or
were these people good enough to replay that scene? I could almost forget you.
You and that night in particular. I could almost forget the words I forgot to
tell you that night.
You were beautiful.
The destructive kind.
