You once asked me why I loved you, or at least why I think I love you. And if I remember correctly, at that time, you (someone who does not take the L word lightly) were quite taken aback.

“That’s impossible,” you said. “It’s not like you have a million poems stashed around your room about me. We’ve known each other for years. That would be… strange.”

In fact, I burned the last one the other day. It was about how goddesses like you could never fall for mere mortals like me, filled with the existentialist crap that. I wrote it long ago for a poetry-writing workshop. It was so vile that it was soundly booed but I kept it anyway, mostly because it was about you.

I have no regrets. Most of what I’ve written isn’t worth wiping my ass with, anyway. To paraphrase the oft-quoted saying, love indeed, does make horrible poets out of buffoons.

We’ve been friends, what, seven, eight years. We met at the only high school soirée I ever attended (because it was held at my place), and I’ve been in love with you since then. In those days, I kept my feelings to myself. I liked having secrets, and you were my secret everything.

You were popular. I'd bet you still are. Everyone knew you. You were that rocker chick who wrote endlessly about falling in love and then some, peppered with enough “this world sucks” angst that it set you apart from everyone else. I loved that about you. I loved everything about you. I loved that you would write to me in some strange foreign alphabet that only you and I could understand.

I love that the world seems to be right as long as you're in it. I love the way we fit with each other. I love the way you give meaning to me. I love the way you save me. I could go on and on and it would be pointless. We’d never be together anyway. I’ve lied far too much and far too often for that to happen.

Oo nga pala. Belated Valentine’s.