Tonight my dream is yours to have
As I cannot sleep; cannot slip into yours.
My gut is tossing and turning.
My head is heavy on the pillow.
My heart is a million miles away.
Is there no greater cliche than you
And I sharing a dream while awake
And leaving off the midnight wandering
To those who have nowhere to go.
Tonight I have no spark, no juice, no mojo
Only yours, only yours.
And still, I cannot sleep.
You sleep for me.
You dream for me.
Someday you live for me
And I'll sleep.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

The Sound of One Heart Breaking

**I had previously published this at a different venue. But given the nature of the posts that have been going up lately, I thought it would only be appropriate to share it here. :) Oddly enough, I wrote this after watching Moulin Rouge for the nth time, empathizing with Christian, the idealistic bohemian poet whose heart had been broken.**1/18/08**

The sound of one heart breaking

is enough to drown out

the loud cheers of jubilation,

or that of an airborne aircraft

zipping into oblivion.

It’s enough to keep you sane

yet at the same moment,

succeed in convincing you that

the world has turned topsy turvy

and everyone else has gone astray

It can be likened to the feeling

of falling into nothingness

when you slip from the Great Climb

That bone-chilling dread

of fear and failure

sneaking into your body

from the excesses of your limbs

as you spiral into the depths below.

It's a combination

of muted whispers and anguished tears

of spine-chilling memories that wake you

in the dead of the night

screaming, wailing, pleading for no more

and yet

even the darkness is not enough

to fill the void of what had been lost

nor savour what once had been.

Her eyelids were heavy but she knew that if she were to fall asleep, she would not wake up. It was almost too cold to breathe. Icicles formed on rim of her nostrils and she had long since stopped feeling anything on her skin. She knew that she was sitting, although her legs and butt were numb. She tried to extend her calf muscles and felt the pressure of solid ground underneath it. Her eyes were still open but they had ceased making out more than shadows and shapes all around. It was all brilliantly white.

HHWD

They sit together in front while the rest of the world falls asleep on the drive home. He drives, chats inanities, letting his hand creep, slowly, closer to hers, as if to catch it unawares, but fails.

She retorts, replies and laughs at the appropriate pauses, touching the crook of his arm at times, letting her fingers find their way down to his.

Pairs of watching eyes only observe talking heads from the back seat, not fully aware but assumptive of the interlocked fingers up front and out of sight.

Butterflies dance in their stomachs tonight. It has been a mere week since their last meeting, and possibly another until their next. These few stolen moments, albeit in not wholely unwelcomed company, are golden.

His eyes leave the road periodically to make sure that his hand isn't asleep and dreaming. His heart is telling his mind to tell his hand not to let go of the smaller other locked in his.

Light and tight squeezes; morse code under their banter. "I miss you" conveyed through pleasant palm-pressure. "I miss you too" in soft reply.

She laughs, looks in his direction, flashes a rare smile, sweeps her hair from her face with her free hand, only to unfree it in a secondary enveloping embrace around his, around hers.

Assurance. "I'm here." Long tight squeeze: "I'm real."

Immobilized is a word
I would never use
to describe the feet that pound
on stone and kick at water.
But you, concrete,
you immobilize me.

There seems to be no end
to train tracks winding
through green countrysides and
sodden urban sprawls.
But you, red and green,
halt the locomotion.

In me a steam rises to feed
and fade, to heat and precipitate.
In me, toes must grip ground
and soles must crack on super-
heated asphalt streets
because there is no rest.

For the wicked whips the good
and frenzied to walk
walk and walk and roll
over hills, mountains, marshes
bogs, down tunnels
and caves of limestone.

I must feel the rain
that is your hand in mine
and see the stop sign
that is your smile.
Please, I've traveled
all this way.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

Salsa Dancing

Quick, quick, slow

Quick, quick slow

That’s the pace

You need to match

Should you fancy

This delectable dance.

One, two, three

Five, six, seven

An eight count measure

Ruled by these six numbers,

The four’s and eight’s

Signal an unspoken rest.

It’s there but not quite

Followed carefully by the rhythm.

The ladies’ dance

That’s what some call it

For it is about the ladies at all times.

Mistakes are regarded as the gentlemen’s folly.

When you have a moment

Of dancing with a free hand

Styling takes precedence

Where bodies are swayed and framed

By arms that extend and twist and turn

Unleashing the diva that lies within.

Don't look down

To fancy your own footwork.

Maintain eye contact

With the man you are with

For he who leads

with a strong arm and a sure foot

encases a passion reserved for you

and only you as you dance in his arms.

Back with the right,

Front with the left

That’s all there is to remember

To keep from losing your step

In the resonant beating

Of the congo and your heart.

a study in alliteration

Examine this enigmatic, entropic entry:
An asinine attempt at alliteration.
This fantastic failure of fickle fiction
shall slowly suck succulent seconds
from lives of the little learned.

When I was told that time would stop that afternoon, right in the middle of rush hour, I could not help believe it. After all, it was told to me by a young girl who had been institutionalized since she was 4 years old because she would not speak. Alicia was her name and I had never heard her utter any sound, not even a groan nor a sniffle when she cried.

The hospital had been gripped with what the doctors called "mass hysteria" since noon the day before. In-patients had been restless for weeks before then. Out-patients would refuse to step into the observation rooms and would just demand that their prescriptions be filled out at the receiving area. The doctors and the nurses had no clue about what was going on; they attributed the pandemonium to the approaching full moon.

I knew what was happening. Or at least I thought I knew. I tried to tell them, but I was an in-patient. Yes, so, no one really cared what I thought I knew.

When Alicia told me all about it, I didn't know for sure whether she was really speaking or if it were another one of the Voices. I had to put my hand to her mouth to make sure the sounds really were coming out of it. I had to whisper to her, "Don't scream," when I did coz I didn't need to get into any more trouble. But she sought me out, and was quiet.

I had a little trouble listening at first. I had to concentrate on her mouth. There were so many other sounds, other words, that I had to read Alicia's lips to understand what she was saying. What only she was saying.

Finally I understood. So time would stop. Soon. I tried to tell someone, like they say you should.

Alicia laughed when a nurse forced me to take a Pill. Silently, of course, she laughed. "Art, not another one of your stories," the nurse had said.

Before I fell asleep, I vowed I would wake up just before time stopped. I had always wanted to be a witness to something. The Voices promised to wake me. They wanted to see too.

Alicia lay with her head on my shoulder and started to cry without a sound.

She was my sister, did I tell you that? She never spoke because she had never heard. Me? I hear too much.

there's a certain kind of restlessness

that's been stewing deep within.

perhaps it is a sense of urgency,

or even a sense of dread, no

one knows where it came from

all i know is

the chaos is maddening.

Di ito kasama: Remember, kids, poems are made to be spoken :D So read this with feelings :) Just a little fun thing. On with the show!



You can't script
hardcore porn it just comes
naturally naturally
just like sex

no use yelling
more tongue! more action!
left-right-harder-faster!
they'll do what comes
naturally naturally
just like sex.

Naturally they "Fuck!"
Naturally they "Oh, God!"
Naturally they "Jesus!"
Christ naturally
naturally
just like sex

Fuck, they'll put it in,
Oh God, they'll turn over
by themselves they'll,
Jesus, use three fingers,
and push harder than what's
in the script.

Oh yes, they'll do it
and love to get paid
but naturally
It's just like sex
only you
only get
to only
watch.

Alone and wide awake he sits, with nothing but the ticking of his watch to accompany him. He keeps time, bides time, watches time go by, waiting in the shadow of the tree, on the front steps of the apartment building.


It's 11 PM. She should have been home by now.


But he saw neither hide nor hair, nor shadow of his quarry.

Armed with his weapon of choice, tightly gripped in his right hand, he waits.


Has she abandoned me?


A cab rounds the corner, stops at her block. Butterflies beat its heavy wings in his stomach, and settle at the sight of a woman too elderly to be her. He watches as she ambles in through the front door, which she closes gingerly behind her. Again, he is alone.


No lights in the window yet. She couldn't have slipped past me, could she?


Tonight, failure is not an option he dares to explore. It has to be done tonight, or there will be no tomorrow.

Walking on the far end of the street, he spots her. Taking long steps with her equally long legs, with purse hung at her side, she walks with her head held down, lost in thought. She takes no notice of him.

He stands up, keeps still in the shadows until the last possible moment.

She looks up, realizing too late that her arrival was too long anticipated.

He lunges at her and locks her in such an embrace that she loses her breath.

And they kiss.

In one deft motion, he releases her, takes her hand, goes down on one knee, slips on the ring, and asks her to be his and only his, in the shadow of the tree, by the front steps of the apartment building...

The Wooden Cabinet

The wooden cabinet looked strange in her sparsely furnished bedroom. It was too big, for one thing, and it was yet another addition to the motley bunch of mismatched furnishings that could be found in it.

The room was a shade of pink with hints of white and rose. The frames and doors had been painted white by the original builders. The bed was also primarily white, with smatterings of subtle color here and there. She had found a small bedside table at a local garage sale when she first moved in and it had been just the right size for her bed. It was cherry brown, with cast iron details. She had made it a point to bring into her room a spare lamp she had found around the house. The lamp and bedside table completed the look of her bed, even if there weren’t any other furnishings to speak of.

When she had started studying at the university a few months back, she had thought it prudent to invest in a desk. It was as she had hoped meant to help make her work and studies more efficient. But in recent months, it had functioned more as a place for her trinkets and books whenever she came in or left the room. She hadn’t cared that her desk was a dark brown hue, either. After all, it looked black in the dark so it could still go with the cast iron detail of the bedside table.

This piece of work, on the other hand, was in so many ways an antique. It was beautifully crafted hardwood with matching bronze fittings and a rich brown varnished finish. It had been pretty to look at when she first set eyes on it at an acquaintance’s house. Since that person was moving away and getting rid of excess furnishings, she had jumped at the opportunity of finally having a dresser.

But that had been when it was elsewhere. That was probably because her room was much smaller than the room it had been in. She had failed to consider the hulking size of the thing. Now that it sat ominously against the once bare wall of her room, it looked strange. It had sat there, wrapped in protective plastic coverings, for several days after the movers had brought it in. She had merely stared at it, regarding it a strange intrusion into her now familiar space. After a few days of staring at it, she took out a pair of scissors and cut through the plastic wrap. She tried to ball it up into a huge wad as she regarded the dresser for scratches or any kind of damage that the movers may have made in bringing it up to her room.

The next day, she opened the cabinet doors and was pleasantly surprised to find drawers inside. But its insides smelled of smoke and a hint of mothballs—not exactly the kind of smell one normally expected of a wooden cabinet. But then again, this cabinet had probably lived through as much cigarette smoke as she had so that gave them something in common to start with. She had to leave it open for a few hours to air out the smell, aside from spraying the drawers with a Lysol Odor-neutralizing spray .

When the smell of smoke had faded away, she took a cleaning cloth and some lightly scented all-purpose cleaner to task. Spraying all the surfaces and wiping it clean, purposefully discarding whatever remnants of the past the cabinet may have held. In the nooks and corners, some sentimental dust had accumulated. Underneath the drawers, she found a faint cobweb and an old prayer card—some offering of grace signed by a presumably old priest. A randomly misplaced nut and bolt, probably set aside by the previous owner for a purpose too soon forgotten and discarded.

Just when she was almost done, she noticed a tiny inscription on the bottom of the cabinet door’s inner side.

Love is never enough

It had been written in an unassuming manner. Whoever wrote it probably didn’t intend for it to be found by a stranger’s eyes. Pity. Such a beautiful piece of work ruined by some presumably pained individual who needed a testament to what it was that he had gone through.

She stood to put away her cleaning things and when she set them on her desk, a Sharpie pen caught her eye. Today was, after all, a day of cleansing. She picked up the Sharpie and twirled it thoughtfully in her hand. She uncapped it and bent towards the inscription.

Love is never enough 6.8.10

It was the beginning of an end.

she updates her status quite sparingly. and though i know i shouldn't care, i still can't avoid being updated.

it was decided that, in an effort not to weird the world out and to make things low key, that no unfriending would occur.

the change of status, however, affected more of my friends than it did myself.

"... is single" generated more comments than any of the ridiculous posts that either of us used to make (with the exception of the scandalous ones of friends i'm sure). i would've spent an entire afternoon replying to "what?"s and "what happened"s and "oh no! are you ok"s had i not the presence of mind to just ignore it all.



when you ignore it, it doesn't happen. close your eyes. the world stops turning. if you manage to forget it at all, you get to start anew.

but the quiet throb of the battered and broken heart, yet unstilled, continues on.



each new lone entry, each update, spoke to me: titles of songs (silent digs at my failings), words of exasperation (surely aimed at me). and then ...

"... is in a relationship."

and then nothing. a long string of nothing. not even a mafia wars update.




unfriended.



close your eyes. parang kagat lang ng langgam yan.

The two men were speaking in a language no one else in the room could understand. Otherwise, it was a silent room. Laughter in an indecipherable language competed with the hum of the airconditioner. From the computer, she spoke to me. In txtspk. From her new Sony Ericsson Satio. And I wish I were on the other side of the world.

*****

The pop-up seemed completely random - a virus-generated anomaly at the lower right hand corner of my screen. Bold black letters (font size 10, Arial Narrow) on white background (#FFFFFF). I wondered if the text was part of a conversation between two chatting people that got misfired to me. But there was no username. No profile picture. Nothing. Just a 5-line grouping of words that somehow made better sense from a stranger than from a buddy.

I minimized my open windows and double-clicked my antivirus icon. No sense risking any more malware attacks.

*****

She got a part on a series for a cable channel. They're going to be shooting in Romania. I'll miss her.

*****

The pop-up disappeared but was quickly replaced by another one. This message seemed to be a continuation of the previous one. I debated whether I should click it. Was it a missent message? Or was it a virus that would hijack my computer and make it a drone? My hand on the mouse wavered. The hand icon on screen hovered over the text box.

*****

I told myself, you know you want to. Why not just pack everything up and follow her? Why not just throw some clothes in a suitcase and follow her? Well, I follow her, but not in real life.

*****

The third message appeared with an alacrity that stilled my hand. I paused to read it, then frowned.

*****

I know she doesn't really speak to me. Not to me, directly. At least not so that I could answer her, directly.

*****

The fourth message had me scowling in confusion. It wasn't exactly "All your base belong to us!" but it was inscrutable just the same. The antivirus scan pinged and announced that my system was clear. Hm. Really.

*****

Well, it was nice chatting with you. Talk to you again soon.

*****

I shut down and got up. I'll never spend my break in the computer rental place again. Too many freaks and weirdos.

Failing this, she rallied
and imagined rows of children
beating sticks against earth.

the black robed man sat in silence, as the desert wind whipped around him. he watched as the young girl, first still and silent, surveyed her surroundings. then, startled, she struggled in the prison of her own making, unaware of this other, and that this shell of hers might very well keep her alive if she let it. 


a storm was coming, and the wall of sand and wind would be upon them by sunset. but he was unafraid. after all, he knew how to turn himself into the wind.


but on she scrambled, cursed the skies, pounded her fists and let her frozen feelings, thaw, and finally flow. slowly, she broke through the barrier around her simultaneously breaking down that which surrounded her very heart. 


the stranger watched, impassively. she had not noticed him. and he made no effort to be noticed either. but he nodded to acknowledge the presence of the man in white. he too watched intently, but with an invested interest the other cared nothing for, and the girl had all but forgotten. 


the man in white stood up as the girl broke through her shell, now sobbing, failing to satiate the always thirsty sand. she was weak when he reached her, and she seemed to know him not. but that mattered little to the man as he bent low, picked her up, and whispered in her ear.


"the ice was in your eyes and around your heart. but all the sharp edges were pointing inwards."


but she was already asleep. 


the black robed man, witness to this spectacle, looked on. she would be safe now, and he would not be needed. he watched as the two walked into the red setting sun, slowly drowning in the darkening sky, as the wall of sand and wind quickly descended upon them. the man in white would turn them both into the wind, the other knew for certain, for he had taught him well. 


then, he stood, faced into the storm, and vanished.

I stood on the precipice of what appeared to be a sand dune. Everywhere I looked, there was nothing but sand and the red setting sun. The wind was blowing, surrounding me with its turbulent presence. Oddly enough, the bright orange sand would blow all around but not against me. It was as though I were in a transparent bubble that prevented me from feeling what was happening all around me. I wanted out. I wanted it so badly that I started beating at the walls of my invisible chamber.

But every time I struck it, it is as though my fists were made of putty and managed to create the most insignificant of vibrations around my transparent dome. I’m not certain if it was the fear or panic that had started bubbling up inside of me or the sheer desperation of my situation that drove me to scream at the roaring wind and the barren landscape that was all around me.

“Damn you! Damn you for causing all of this! Damn you for everything!” I screamed as hot, angry tears drizzled towards my chin. “Why did things have to happen this way? Why couldn’t you just have let things be? I hate you! Why didn’t you just kill me?” I sobbed as I beat helplessly at the air. “Why doesn’t it make sense? Why? I don’t understand. Why me? Why now? I don’t want to understand anymore.”

A few moments passed before I noticed an alien sensation on my skin. Tiny pockets of air seemed to brush against the little hairs on my arm. I sniffled and wiped away my tears with one hand as I grimaced at that particular area of my arm. Just as I was reaching with my other hand to touch it, I notice a similar sensation on my now damp fingers and on my face. Only then did I realize that my invisible chamber had vanished. I collapse with the slightest relief on my knees but still continued to weep bitterly.

When dusk had almost come upon me, a stranger, clad in a white robe of course linen approached. He had materialized out of nowhere but I was too tired and preoccupied with my grief to bother with him. It was then that I felt his arms enveloping me in an embrace that was both comforting and terrifying. I could not help but continue to sob quietly in the little cocoon that I was ensconced in. He stroked my hair and rocked me silently, to comfort me perhaps or to will me to sleep. No words were exchanged, just one wandering soul giving comfort to another. And just like that, my grief abated. Slowly, steadily retreating away into the darkness and nothingness that pervaded the area. I look up to notice the moon is full tonight as he half-carried, half led me towards the darkness, each step seeming to find a stronger foothold than the last.