Tag Archives: Kiss

A Love Letter to Boof

I love you, and there’s only one reason why.

To my love,
I love you, and there’s only one reason why.

I love you. You hear these words a lot from me, and you know that whenever I tell you these words I mean them. I love you. Three words that are powerful individually but are more powerful altogether. I love you.

I love you. I love you not because of the way you bite my lip whenever we kiss. It’s not because of the way your fingers tremble whenever they trace the outlines of my face. It’s not because of the way your palms sweat whenever we hold hands (especially in public). It’s not because of the way your eyes twinkle whenever they gaze into mine. Nor is it because of the way you flash a crooked smile and stare at me with love whenever we run out of things to talk about.

I love you. It’s not because of the way your voice cracks whenever you’re trying to make a confession. It’s not because of the way you suddenly turn 600 times sexier when you sing me a love song. It’s not because of the way you calm my nerves whenever I feel tense. It’s definitely not because of the way your words are filled with optimism and love.

I love you. It’s not because of the way you send me cute little text messages to remind me that you’re always in my life. It’s not because of the way you call 5 minutes every day just to check up on me. It’s not because of the way you whisper sweet nothings whenever we’re alone. It’s not because of the way it sounds so sweet whenever you call me “boof”. It surely is not because of the way you scribble weird stuff on my notes.

I love you. It’s not because of the way you know my favorites. It’s not because of the way you order my favorite Starbucks drink 10 minutes before I arrive (coz you know that it takes 5 minutes for it to brew). It’s not because of the way you ask for spare change whenever we ride a cab or buy groceries coz you’re almost always a few bucks short. It’s not because of the way you make coffee and tell me that it’s “our” coffee. It’s not because of the way you ask me to go with you when you’re gonna get a glass of water from the water dispenser. It’s not because of the way we share our food (although I wouldn’t call it sharing coz you eat 3/4 of it). It’s most certainly not because of the way you steal my fries.

I love you. It’s not because of the way you tell me to fix my life without sounding bossy and insulting. It’s not because of the way you tell me that staying up late is bad for my health. It’s not because of the way you try to make me see things in a lighter perspective whenever I have problems (which is pretty much all the time). It’s not because of the way you tell me that you’ll punch anyone who did or will do me wrong (but I SRSLY doubt you’d do that coz you’ve never punched or slapped or laid a hand on anyone in your entire life). It’s not because of the way you suddenly turn all protective when you feel like my guard is down. It’s not because of the way you’re exerting a lot of effort in making this long distance relationship work.

I love you. I love you because of one thing. I love you because despite all the things that I did to you, all the pain I caused you, and all the headaches I gave you, you still accepted me. I love you because of that. You gave me chances—not just one but many chances to prove myself worthy of someone like you.

I’ve treated you badly. I’ve been unfaithful. I’ve been a complete pain in the ass. Totally undeserving of your love. Totally. But despite all my shortcomings, you still forgave me. Your eyes still twinkle whenever they gaze into mine like the first time they ever did. You still turn 600 times sexier whenever you sing me a song just like the first time you sang me one. You still whisper sweet nothings like you used to. You still bite my lip whenever we kiss. You still make “our” coffee when we’re together. You still try to make our relationship work.

You stayed with me despite all my imperfections, failures, drawbacks, and faults. That’s love. At least for me. That’s the reason why I love you. And I would never stop loving you even if time and space or whatever separates us.

With all my heart,
Your boof

Note: Boof was the term of endearment that we used (much like babe, honey or sweetheart). It’s a wordplay on ‘boyfriend’. Boyfriend —> boyfie —> boofie —> boof

Love and Pain

Crying does not mean that you’re weak. It’s a normal coping mechanism especially after a loss of a loved one, after a heartbreak. It’s a manifestation of the pain that we feel. 

 

[Pain.] (n.) highly unpleasant physical sensation caused by illness or injury (or in my case, caused by love or the lack thereof). We try to avoid pain. It’s that one sensation that most (considering that there are sadists and masochists and people who just love pain) refuse to experience. It’s the feeling that traces its roots from negative experiences we’ve had. It’s a reminder of how we were emotionally tortured and hurt.

 

I don’t like pain. In fact, I hate it. Not the physical type of pain. I’m talking about the emotional type. You can treat physical pain. Just dab some ointment or take some painkillers, and you’re good to go. Emotional pain, on the other hand, is much harder to heal. It lingers and haunts you more than the body sore that you feel from playing volleyball or practicing karate. Yet it is something that comes to people a lot of times and in a very unexpected manner. It’s like a visit of the Hilton sisters in a party they were not invited to. It’s like a mystery box—not the good-stuff-filled kind but the shit- and grief-filled one.

 

Pain is like a very potent bottle of poison. You start by experiencing extreme difficulty in swallowing and a burning sensation in your throat. Then an unbearable stomach aches follow. Soon after, you’ll be vomiting. If that’s not enough suffering yet, you’d start getting vertigo and your blood pressure and pulse decreases. Your limbs would hurt like they’re being torn from your body. You’d also start getting more depressed and you’d think about your death. And after all these sufferings, you’d die. That’s what pain feels like. Not that I’ve experienced being poisoned, but I’m pretty sure you’d understand and get a picture of what pain feels like (if the description wasn’t vivid enough).

 

Just before the holiday season, I experienced pain once more. My boyfriend (who said he was not really boyfriend) broke up with me. It was poison. It was an unexplainable mixture of emotions—rage, fear, depression, guilt, loss, grief, and above all, pain that was exponentially multiplied.

 

It was totally unexpected. We were very happy together. Then we weren’t. Or at least he wasn’t. I know that he could be very unpredictable. He does things that surprise me (both in good and bad ways). What happened that day was a bad kind of surprise. I didn’t see it coming. Come to think of it, we had great, intimate sex before he broke up with me. After all those sweet kisses and long cuddles, he said he wants to stop seeing me. He said he doesn’t want commitments. He said he doesn’t really fall in love.

 

It was so painful and insulting. Have you ever experienced being used for or dumped after sex? If you haven’t, then you’re lucky and I hope you don’t get to try it. For those people like me who’ve tried it, you know the amount of pain I’m going through. 

 

I was shattered after hearing all those words. At first, I didn’t want to believe any of it. I kept thinking that it was just a bad dream or a ridiculous joke. It felt so unreal. I was in shock—a charged shock. I wanted to ask him why he stopped loving me (if he actually loved me). I didn’t know what to do. There it was, I was poisoned.

 

It was very hard for me, but I had to face reality. He doesn’t want me anymore. He wants freedom. He wants his life back. And even if I wanted to stop him, I couldn’t. I’m not someone who comes in the way of what people want. I’m not the kind of person who controls the relationship or a person. I’m the kind of person who lets the other person enjoy his life and live it the way he wants. You can say that I’m a modern day martyr, and I got a taste of my own poison.