Noted

I'm always afraid I can't stitch my words into a perfect piece. All the cobwebs in my head are pressing themselves into my mouth and my vomit is coming up like a choo-choo train and it tastes like salvaged lint from the dry cleaners. I'm trying to unhook myself from the world and focus on paperbacks and dandelions and noses, feel the waves with a couple of dolphins, and just shut my eyes as I embrace the flood, welcome the copper in between my electric fingers. Open my mouth to a gasp of lightning, nurture the pain in my ankles and in my calves with a bend of friction, treating a craving with a gluttonous retaliation, murmurs like ice in utterance but like coffee on a Sunday morning in the lungs. I tell myself I am meant to help myself through a protocol of wires and nutcases, but I can't hear anything over the radio, the inside of my mouth burning from blowing the wisps of taunting fire. I shall not make sense and I shall not touch the algorithm (because I don't want your stupid cure, or, well, your um stupid "theory") and a sliver of tongue and a shot of winter (in my bones, in my sentiments, on the warpath of my palms, living in my very core) is enough for me

and

I'm going to break and regress and scratch at my nubby toes (because they're freaking me out when I don't wear socks) and kiss somebody - you - before the ground opens up under me and takes me away (from you). I don't know if I'm doing love right but I hope my hugs don't suffocate you and my heart doesn't hurt yours. Maybe we can count our blessings and visit the CD store and pick some flowers where there aren't any signs, or people, yes, because that would be nice and  liberating and ticklish for me and I like the guitar in your laugh and the slope of your nose and the stories, the universe, in your eyes

(especially how they twinkle when they collide with mine,
and sometimes it hurts and I can't figure out why).

But I think it would be even more spectacular if we got to hold hands
like, maybe in the streets of Bologna or in your Dad's car
because my heart hums and my mouth hums and I think
your eyes shed more stars than ever when that happens

So it makes me happy because it's about to rain in the thunder and lightning kind of way (it's also like tambourines and drums and a whole orchestra... but with bazookas). We don't have anything but that coffee shop across the street where hands burn and silhouettes are misleading. And it's you and the nonsense you speak that like to make sense of my hollow hands because they don't shake like earthquakes anymore and I've occupied them with tattoos of what you say.

You say you like autumn but love summer and I can't wait to kiss winter for you. Your knees are beautiful and your legs are skinny, your shoulders fragile, cracking, but stable, sinew after sinew a heartbreaker, and the smell of your hair on the back of your neck drives me into the mattress and I'm bewildered but articulate in incoherence which you think is lovely so I don't protest. I can drink liquor from your expletives and skip from constellation to constellation with the astral roses on the canvas of your back and I can smoke colors of black and white without fetching a few cigarettes from under your bed. You taste like blueberry and bread crumbs and hot red toothpaste, Scrabble around your wrists and white glue in your hair, History your favorite subject. You sound like the harps you often listen to and whistling sailboats marking the sea and my whole entity is pooling around my heels, ferociously, unkindly,

and my heart is somewhere here;
it looks like a clump of feathers
but i carried it once
and it weighed like Atlas
carrying you and me--
us, the world; i can say
that we're nothing, but we
treat ourselves with
utmost importance
so maybe we weigh
more than we should, and
so I'm blaming you because

the hotel is crashing down into roasting ashes and it's because I've unlocked the cage of my heart and the prideful organ flew from my hands before it could remember it couldn't fly on its own

thus the malfunction
and destruction
of everything that used to be
just fine, and i
didn't mean this to happen
(i'm so sorry, m'dear)--
salty tears and lamentations too soft,
spread like butter on my fingers,
and this is sick, spoiled, in my throat,

savage and too hot for (your) coats and I'm sad and I wish my feet didn't hurt so bad from running from the nest of ashes to the hospital

where you lay
and I miss you and I will (and you'll hate me for
being cliche) miss you
(goddammit)
forevermore.

my love.

Pent-up

I hate people. I hate how they’re lonely. I hate how they think too much. I hate how they dodge their feelings, their needs, their wants. I hate how they make things too complicated. I hate how they cry at the night, in the dark. I hate how they’re empty. I hate how they’re reckless. I hate their assumptions. I hate how they think. I hate how they analyze. I hate their stares. I hate their tongues, always moving to convey what they want to say. I hate how they’re so problematic. I hate their illnesses. I hate their thoughts. I hate how they socialize. I hate how they flirt. I hate how they look. I hate how they pretend to know. I hate how they know. I hate their willingness. I hate how they’re too happy. I hate how they’re uninterested. I hate their instincts. I hate that they’re strangers. I hate their selfishness. I hate how they’re villains. I hate their curiosity.

I love people. I love how they share. I love how they care when it seems like they don’t. I love how they’re beautiful. I love their ideas. I love their aspirations. I love their weird dreams. I love how they’re so rapt in something; a book, the sunset, somebody. I love their selflessness. I love how they’re shy. I love how dauntless they look when they feel like they’re vulnerable. I love their smiles. I love the sense they make. I love how mysterious they are. I love their theories. I love their laughter. I love how heart-achingly perfect they look when they cry. I love their secrets. I love how they’re heroes. I love how they’re complete. I love their silence. I love their progression. I love how they don’t care.

God-forsaken Precipice

Maybe the world is meant to be a tangle of electricity, an uncontrollable myriad of emotions unraveled one by one. Maybe the shadows we see before we sleep are meant to be the friendliest of ghosts dressed in the black of the night, their whispers twisting in your head. Maybe home is supposed to be not where you were born, somewhere far and hidden, somewhere worth the falling rocks and rising water. Maybe the damsel in distress is meant to break the ground and save herself, disregarding the late hero who is not a hero at all. Maybe the eyes of strangers are meant to be flashing and sudden, so that curiosity can fill us. Maybe eternity is meant to be a second, a second or maybe a moment, a flash consisting of happiness – whatever happiness is to you. Maybe the sea is meant to be rough and soft, rock and roll and a mother’s lullaby. Maybe the scraped walls are meant to be left like that, founded like that, dumped like that. Maybe the sad and mad and bad words in your heart right now are meant to be stripped off and buried, but the world keeps holding and being, so it’s harder. Maybe the sound of a breaking heart isn’t a roar, but the littlest whisper, something fragile and the least audible. Maybe the heavy rope is meant to break, so you can have a long, quiet break, so you can rest.

Maybe love is meant to be imperfection – the imperfection of two people perfect for each other. Maybe love is meant to be different, in not the same colors. Maybe love isn’t meant to be trapped, but exposed and contagious. Maybe love is the naïve meeting of melting gold, delicate honey that burn and raging water, pouring heavens that flood. Maybe love is meant to jump out to you in pictures. Maybe love is admiration and adoration so strong you can’t hold back. Maybe love has no boundaries, no limits. Maybe love is supposed to be fearless and free. Maybe love is that spark, that group of fluttering butterflies, that firework show, that static electricity, that sudden intake of breath. Maybe love is meant to touch and affect. Maybe love is being dangerous and risk-taking. Maybe love is worth pain, hurt, and loneliness. Maybe love is falling in strong arms of some stranger who really isn’t a stranger. Maybe love is a pull, a tugging you feel. Love is confusing, but time will replace that “adjective” with another one, one that explains everything.

Maybe beauty isn’t immediate perfection. Maybe beauty is that gap in between two front teeth. Maybe beauty is the soul with an interesting story. Maybe beauty is tripping on the stairs and landing somewhere serene. Maybe beauty is how you develop and see. Maybe beauty is something more than models making girls feel ugly. Maybe beauty is the stopping of breath and widening of eyes of realization. And maybe it's the cause.

Just. Just maybe.

We’re stuck, but maybe we can let ourselves fall – for the experience, the thrill, the relief, and the freedom.

It's a love story, baby, just say "yes"

Happy Valentine's Day!!! <3

It appears I'm in love with the song titled "Enchanted". I LOVE both versions! I just can't get enough of both Taylor Swift and Adam Young's versions. It's this attractive, dreamy love story. All the perfection and cuteness is so bewildering. Hello, I am also wonderstrucked. Haha. Can I butt in?

Taylor Swift just inspires me. Just like what Adam Young said, everything about her is lovely. She's this beautiful creature that was, like, created to sing and love and sing and love. No hate. She is just very charming. Adam, you've picked the one. Don't hesitate please. Sigh. If only they would date already! And get married, like what every Owl City and Swift fan has tweeted.

Adam Young has stolen. Stolen hearts, that is. Let's just hope and pray that he has stolen Taylor's heart, too. He is a role model. Definitely Dolphinitely the female version of Taylor. Haha. I am entirely positive that every Owl City and Swift fan out there agrees that he is the sweetest and most romantic boy who walks the planet Earth right now. I agree too. I was enchanted too. Hehe. I mean, among all the boys Taylor has written a song for, only one responded. And even through a song! A very heartMELTING (not just warming) song. I cried last night because all of it was just hopelessly and desperately lovely and dreamy. It strucked me like they strucked eachother. It's immensely too dreamy. They just make me happy.

ANYYYWAYS, I can't wait for Taylor's concert in Manila!!!!!! Oh and there's the Foundation too.

Love,
Amber

P.S. My cell phone tells me that I play Enchanted by Owl City way more than Taylor's version. I. Can't. Believe. It. And that just happened yesterday and today!