love is breathing (what i mean is that it’s alive

odessa julienne rebaya

love is breathing (what i mean is that it’s alive)

i once saw two old people buying clothes at a mall, smiling back at each other like they’ve been doing this since forever—like this is what they’ll be doing even in the years after the other’s death

when i pass by the grocery, i always pick the fruits at the bottom of the stall.

i don’t know why, but i just think i like them better that way. this is also how my grandmother used to pick her watermelons. the ones at her bedside table when she died. i’ve always loved how she loves.

the world is one poem and each verse is a life told through footsteps. a rhythm as they call it. and i think footsteps are just heartbeats in disguise. always in motion. never stopping. only aching when they’ve been used a little too much than what they’re used to.

but what i really mean is, my mom tries on different pairs of shoes for hours and my dad waits for her. he follows her through every aisle of stilettos and kitten heels. he complains, yet is still there. he gets tired, but is still there. i think i won’t ever experience a love like my parents’. what i mean is that i’m not really fond of footwear shopping. but what i really meant was that i feel like no one has the patience to stay with me until it’s over—until i’m ready for it to be.

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but there are people who still tie my shoelaces together even if i don’t ask them to and i think that’s enough to start. because love comes in multitudes. and is in every corner of the world. and on every chamber in your heart. what i mean is that i sometimes feel like abandoned fruit that longs to be loved. i crave for it and it’s disgusting, but that’s how i live. i live for what has never reached for me. i live to be in reach of it, then.

is this a form of love or a survival instinct? who knows. i’m breathing just hard enough for it to be both.

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