Diary, English, Journaling, Life, Poetry, Thoughts

This is our story

Words are not what they used to be,
back when each word you wrote carried the weight of your hand
and with it the stories of how you learned to write
and the mistakes that taught you how.

Typewritten words are so swift and quick it has taken away
the beauty and art of writing. It does not
teach you how the wrong words, even when erased, leave a mark.
Your fingers do not carry the weight of perfecting your handwriting, you just choose
whichever font suits you and format it within seconds.
It had become a habit you’re used to doing that repeating it
over and over again
takes away everything until it becomes

That is our story.
A bunch of words that never carried the weight of our lives
that it always left us feeling empty. We tried to bridge the gap
with words, filling the empty spaces.
But when you fill emptiness with nothing, it implodes.
And every time we made a mistake, we jumped
one step back and pretended that it never happened.
We did this over and over again that the marks our mistakes left became
permanent, we forgot it was never there when we started.

I asked you to write me a letter,
one that carried the weight of your hand, the heaviness of your thoughts,
one that carried stories of mistakes, of revisions, because you wanted your
handwriting to be perfect. But you didn’t. Instead,
you gave me one printed from a computer shop across the street because
you were too lazy to set up your printer.
The words sounded poetic, it was an ocean I had to dive deep into.
But it meant nothing.

I knew you typed that letter in five minutes, that
you didn’t bother to think of the words in advance because
you knew that you could always press delete whenever you wanted to.
You would right click one of the words and check out its synonyms
because you thought it would make the words sound better. But it didn’t.
Your letter lost its meaning from the very moment you typed it in your computer screen.

If only.
If only we learned from the start that empty words
would never fill the space between us. Maybe we wouldn’t have hearts
jagged and broken because our pieces never fit together.
Maybe we would never make those mistakes over and over again. Maybe we would never
pretend that we felt warm when we wrapped our arms around each other,
maybe we would have the strength to let go because
we knew we were better on our own.
If only. But we didn’t.

Diary, English, Journaling, Life, Poetry, Thoughts


How do you decide to leave someone?


Where do words go
when they are not used?

Do they sleep in beds
covered with blankets
to keep them warm
and alive?

Do they fall in love?
Are subjects and predicates
forever intertwined?

Are adverbs stronger
than verbs?
Are pronouns understudy
of nouns?
Are prepositions for finding
lost things only?
Are adjectives merely colors
used to paint the world?
Are interjections more emotional
than punctuations?

I sat there,
when you came in.
A question formed
in your lips
and in your eyes
I found the answer.

English, Journaling, Life, Photography, Poetry

Scratch Paper

Why do writers waste so much paper? I asked you that once. You laughed as you pulled me into your lap. You answered me in hushed tones, whispers that spoke of mistakes you must make to come up with something beautiful, of things you must waste to find a jewel.

Am I a scratch paper? I asked. You held my face then kissed my forehead, then my nose, then my lips. No, you aren’t. You are my muse.

edgeofjade - photography 1
(c) Dean Canizo


Diary, English, Journaling, Poetry, Thoughts

Scratch Paper

I’m hoping you’ll look at me.
and touch my skin,
to run your fingers
on every line of memory
you printed on me.

But if looking back
will remind you
of mistakes and a broken past,

I will enfold myself
in faithful loneliness,
slipping between the pages
of a forgotten book and
lie with the sleeping dust—

Until someone comes to unfold me
to correct your mistakes
and write new but better memories.

Diary, English, Journaling, Life, Poetry, Thoughts

Time Travel

“You broke my bestfriend’s heart. Why would you think I’d let you break mine?” I asked him.

“If only I could turn back time,” he said.

“Then what? You’d break her heart all over again?”

He looked at me and said, “No. So I could have met you first and fallen in love with you instead.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying hard to make this work.”