This is not about you

"Why haven't you written about me?" 

You asked me one night after I had sent you the link to a poem I just posted on my blog.


"Because you haven't done anything to hurt me. You haven't made me sad nor lonely. I usually just write when I want to get rid of nasty feelings.You haven't given me those," I replied.


Months passed after that conversation and I still hadn't written about you. We've gone through fights, yes, but none of those warranted a piece of literature from me. Tears were shed, promises were broken, declarations of affection were replaced with accusations, and yet nothing was produced in honor of you. No parchment was wasted with inkblots and messy handwriting. No new notification for a recent blog post.No late night notes were saved on my phone.


There was nothing.

"Why haven't you written about me?" 

You asked again when you saw me writing in my journal about my thoughts on post-modern feminism. We were sitting at the lobby, killing time before our 1 pm class.

"Because Miley Cyrus is keeping me occupied," I said as I smiled and patted your leg before going back to writing. I wrote until my pen ran out of ink. I wrote until I filled ten pages.


Essays were composed,and speeches were drafted. Opinions, analysis, arguments, ideas, quotes, realizations, reflections, theories, hypothesis, observations, questions, revisions, reminders; each and every one of these was put into paper. I was able to write about everything and anything in and about this world, but none about you. Still none about you.

There was nothing.


"Will you ever write about me?" 

You asked while we were having coffee at a stall just outside the university museum.


"Do you want me to?" I inquired. You looked at me, took a sip of your coffee, then you shrugged.


That day I tried to write about you.I sat in front of the computer for two hours which resulted to nothing but a bad case of headache. I took bond papers from the supplies closet to write on,but every piece was just wasted on random doodles and dress sketches. My phone's battery got drained not because I was composing on Notes, but because I was trying so hard to surpass my highest score in Atomas. I was able to do so many things, but none of them were for you.


Alas,there was still nothing.


"Has she written about me?" I overheard you once when you were with our common friend.We have stopped talking, we've gone our separate ways, and yet you still ask if I have written about you.


I am flattered that you still think so highly of my writing that you wish to be one of my muses. I do not know if this is just your need to fill your ego,or you really have a deep appreciation for the words that I string together in my mind. Either way, I would like to thank you.


However, I must let you know that I haven't written about you. This composition is not even about you. Rather, it's about my struggle in producing something for a person who has given me so much to write about. I cannot seem to find the right words to describe you, what we had, what we didn't, why you left, why we got back together, why I left, and why we no longer talk but it's fine for the both of us.

I haven't written about you because feelings I had for you have been washed away by stronger sentiments towards everything else that is not you. And for that, I'm sorry.

I haven't written about you because I couldn't find time to do so. It didn't seem that important during that time so I never got around into doing it. It never occurred to me that fondness, longing, pain, lust, and attraction all had expiration dates; and so I missed the deadline. Again,I'm sorry.



I haven't written about you,and I'll probably never do so because you were not able to take a part of my soul with you. I did not and do not feel incomplete nor insecure without you. It felt like you were just a current that passed through my body; shocking, unexpected,painful, but quick. So quick it never really made a mark. 

You weren't as heavy as the crosses I carried before. Your presence is so light that you never really left trails or footsteps in my being. So I'm sorry I made you believe you were worth writing about.

Believe me when I say I had a good time with you. I learned so many things about love, life, and myself when you were a part of my daily routine. You are an exquisite human being,so jovial and idealistic. You are wonderful, really, and I am sure some other girl would love to have you as her subject.

So if your mind wanders back to me and your ever so favorite question pops in your head, I hope you check my blog and get to read this:

No, I haven't written about you. And no, I will never write about you.