Dear Periwinkle, I haven’t been very fond of writing letters in the past few years. Words have become sort of… silly, I think, for a multitude of reasons. I wrote you one a couple of months ago, behind the drawing I made, but that was more of a split-second decision. I just thought it would be cute. In other words, I haven’t really sat down to say something extensively meaningful. This is something I’ve found odd with myself as well. I think, like you, I’ve been withholding a certain level of my capacity to love. Even now that we’re together, I find it scary to say or do certain things. Where before, I never would’ve been afraid to allot that same amount of time and effort. But sometimes I see you do so much and I read it as you putting your heart on the line, and it makes me feel stupid. I’m supposed to be the one with my heart on my sleeve, yet there you are. It makes me love you more than I thought I would. And even though I hate to admit it, I love that you always ask me why. I just never answer straight up because I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to say all the corny shit out of nowhere, you know? Sometimes I can hear myself say things and I feel like dying. So I sort of empathize with you and your hesitation with words. Anyway, you’ve written me four pages of why you do love me so I thought I’d do the same but not in letter form. I think it’s easier for me if I just condense it to a list. I am very good at lists. It can also help you feel like you don’t have to read all of it in one go, I think. I just hope you know that I’m grateful for you. I appreciate everything you do for me and I hope I am able to make you feel the things you make me feel. Things haven’t been perfect, but for me, our relationship has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Happy monthsary, babe. Pakiss hehe. Eme. Mahal kita. Yours, Pogi mong jowa
I. Your eyes are the rays of sunlight flooding through my shitty apartment window at 6AM I open mine and I am met with a stirring in my chest brought by the light burning in my stomach Smoke wafting up my organs: hazy thoughts of mornings in an apartment of our own Your lids flutter like the curtains of my childhood room Most mornings I’ve spent, with voices lingering in the background Our mornings greet me with flowery kisses on the cheek, on my neck even when I refuse to wake up You are the peace in my gentlest mornings.
II. Your hands of labor hold me through each waking moment until I have tired myself out back into your arms. Picture this: Hands running through my hair, my scalp in the light of our mornings, Indices lightly dipping into water to prepare our first meal, Thumbs pressing on my palms, relieving me of day-old tension, Loving touches ending our evenings. Love is labor, and you are a laborer at heart.
III. You meet me in places one can only reach with persistence, legs bringing you across great distances after each day’s hard work. I’d tell you to forego each visit, but I know I’d do the same as every great lover has in history: Orpheus for his Eurydice, Odysseus for his Penelope, Cupid for his Psyche. We’d raise them a million challenges, bet all-in in at any game. Your love is enduring. It is an adventurer, climbing the dark forests of Makiling in search of clarity and relief. I foresee you finding Home in a cottage of our making and a warmth that’ll put others to shame. For now, we persist, and love even in our own undoing.
IV. To love is to struggle: Amidst the rising costs, the worsening violence, the weakening bodies. There is only so much a body can take: Only so many scars skin can grapple with, so many wounds, so much pain. My love, I am a struggle, a bonafide challenge to take on. Not many brave this path, but you do so with ease. Your composure in the wake of my mania, your quiet strength in both of our hardest days. I vow to struggle with you, to take on each waking day’s challenges with you. I am no longer afraid. I will struggle with you, for as long as you’d let me.