by Richard Bunyi

Append: “Write as the stars, in the distance, quiver.\Tonight I write the saddest lines.”

I came across these lines as I was browsing one of the poetry books in the Rizal Library’s Circulation section. I guess this hobby of mine is what sets me apart from the stereotypical girl. When you borrow books as often as I do, you must also be aware that it’s not really uncommon for people to use slips of paper as bookmarks and that they often forget to take them out when they return the books. Written on one of those make-shift markers are the above lines. It was sandwiched between two works of Pablo Neruda and, as it suggests, acts as a continuation of one of them, which is “Tonight I can write”.  It’s not a perfect appendage, but the idea that it adds, or at least attempts to add, to the poem is wonderful. First, it makes the reader doubtful of the previous line in the poem (“and these the last verses that I write for her.”) because the writer still could resist writing more lines. Then, in the last line, he loops back to the first line, suggesting that while he does think about getting over the girl, he ultimately gets trapped in that thought which prevents him from moving on. And the euphoria I got from that compelled me to slip a simple bookmark of my own between those pages with my compliments written on it. It was nothing but intense respect or admiration for the author of those lines, but that reply is what started my romantic affair with a poetry book.

I wasn’t really a regular resident of the Circulation section. I borrow books and I leave. I prefer reading in the org room. There’s a lot of fun people, no volume restrictions when you’re talking and there’s the occasional enthusiastic fan-girl of the book I’m reading (they’re always entertaining to talk to). I didn’t see the book again for a few days and even when I did, the two slips of paper seemed untouched. It was only a few weeks later did I find out that whoever wrote the continuation of Neruda’s poem did reply, but placed his reply on another page (it was between Shakespeare’s sonnets). He said that he appreciates the compliments and that he found the note-passing thing cute.

Our conversation continued for weeks using that same medium. At first it was purely about poetry. But as you can guess, I gradually grew to be more personal (and lengthy).  We talked about our academics, our friends, our parents but never about our names. One time, I asked for his name and if he wanted the two of us to meet. On the next note I got from him, he wrote this: “Do you really want that?” It was a rhetorical question. Neither of us wanted to meet the other, or at least not just yet. We wanted to preserve the wonder that comes with our rather peculiar relationship. Making friends with a book just seemed so poetic that neither of us could let go of it. That note came with another one though (in the same page). It said “But if you really must have a name, you can call me Allen.” Obviously that was just a pen name so I played along and made one for myself. “My name is Lina.”

Over time, I found my visits to the library more frequent. Sometimes, I would go there every weekday. But my visits and probably his were far from being part of a schedule. When it’s time for a difficult test or if a deadline for a project (or maybe an article for a particular org’s newsletter) is just around the corner, it was only natural that we prioritize it. So there were days that I couldn’t go to the library to leave a reply and there were also days that I would spend waiting for his.

For days and weeks this went on. Two planets dancing around the same star but never meeting. And for each day that I spend, holding the book, I grew to like it less… the distance.

One day, once again between the works of Pablo Neruda, I found a note quoting lines from Tonight I can write. “I loved her, and sometimes…” I felt the shelves of the Circulation section weigh down on me. I heard the hum of the air conditioner behind the thumping in my chest. And I felt my hands write: “…she loved you too.”

The air seemed so light afterwards. Everyone knows the feeling of getting something that’s been bothering you for a while off your chest. I felt like the stereotypical teenage girl that’s been struck by love. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and butterflies are flying all around me. For the next few days, I spent all my free time at the library. I was planning on catching him there by surprise. But that proved to be more difficult than I thought. I mean, I’m waiting for someone I don’t even know the appearance of. I can’t just pounce on anyone who picks up the book and tell him I’m his mysterious lover. What if I get the wrong person? So, after a few days of futile stalking, I decided to just ask him to meet me. He’ll probably want to meet me now right? Right?

He refused. He insisted that what made our relationship so wonderful was that we were not together. Well, that may have been true before, but we can’t really be in a relationship if we don’t even know what the other looks like. I tried to explain it to him, but it seemed like it just made us drift apart even further. I quoted: “We, of that time, are no longer the same.” But still, he was too deeply entrenched in romanticism.

I received notes less frequently from him as the days passed. I still received some replies, but the words were minimal. Perhaps he has grown uninterested. At best, his stubborn view of our relationship prevented him from reciprocating. I take my time at pacing towards the Rizal Library Entrance. I can feel the cold wind that unmistakably marks the December in the Philippines. I stare up at the shivering stars dotting the dark blue sky of the early dusk. You know, procrastination isn’t solely reserved for academic business. Regardless of what you’re avoiding, you’ll have to face it eventually. Whether it be a project, a set of readings, a letter, or a note. Sure enough, there it was.

“I know that at some point, this must have felt right for both of us. From the little time we’ve spent, regardless of space between us, I’ve derived much joy and I would like to think that you have as well. But you were right; a relationship, a romantic one, must not only be emotional, but also physical. And that is why this must stop. This is not a relationship.”

“Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.”

“Love is so short. Forgetting is so long.” Even though I’ve decided to let go of him, my being insists on gravitating towards him, gravitating towards the book. So, as a last concession to a stubborn heart, I decided to pay a visit to Tonight I can write. And there, embraced by the pages of the book, was a ticket to CompSAt’s Loopback: The Last Chance.