it’s always hard to make these kinds of entries because i’m scared i won’t do it (do you) any justice.
you said dying is fine.
i’ve scrapped too many drafts the past four years. i almost scrapped this one out, too.
the items you left behind.
attempts at sketching. staple clothing. “noir” from bath & body works. the chocolates i bought from the sari-sari store outside your place when i found out you died, to calm me down.
gigs you played and organized. a paper bag from our favorite coffee shop. pedals from friends.
you never washed your jeans. its pockets used as a wallet for spare change, convenience store receipts, a lighter.
legazpi, bicol: you never liked visiting during the summer. i couldn’t understand why; i wish i had a hometown like yours. i tried writing a short story about the mayon volcano in 2017 and you asked your lola to help me.
the hometown you left behind.
the childhood home you left behind.
your mother showed me all the magician paraphernalia you collected when you were 10. i slept on the bed you used to sleep on as a kid.
timtams waiting for you to come back.
google maps says i need to walk 94 hours to get to you.
the body you left behind.
i miss you every day, bleep.