I Never Wrote You a Love Poem

We do not sing each other love songs
Or write poems or prose on Hallmark cards
We never bother with red roses
Or give surprises on special days
We do not go to fancy places
Or lock our hearts on lover's bridges

Instead,
We listen to birds sing to our hearts
Speak with fondness that need not be penned
We plant seeds that grow with seasons
Make memories on just normal days
We take long walks on the countrysides
And leave our shoe prints on the dirt tracks

No,
We do not speak of love, not really
But tonight, the moon was beautiful
The flowers in the garden have bloomed
The scent in the air carries longing
That I thought of you, quite far away
And finally wrote you a love poem.

A Day Like Any Other

Today I won't be getting a 'surprise' bunch of flowers and a box of sweets. We haven't booked a fancy restaurant for an evening meal. Dinner will be a homemade meal of whatever cravings I have at the moment. And like every other night, we would be sat in front of a warm fireplace watching an hour-long BBC documentary on I-player before turning in for the night. 

I hold no grudge against Valentines Day although never once in my 28 years has it been different from any other day. And no, marriage has certainly not made me less of a hopeless romantic, it has in fact made me more aware of simple joys and little acts of love everyday. 

This morning, I noticed how the orchids in our front room have started to grow more buds. When we bought it in early autumn from a bargain shop for  £1.99, we estimate it would last at least before winter. But six months on it is still in full bloom, flowers seem to blossom well in a loving home. 

This is true with all the flowers in our garden where despite the unpredictable weather, the winter pansies are thriving, the spring bulbs are coming out and the leaves of the roses are starting to come back to life. They are the flowers that I get everyday, regardless of the season, not ordered from a florist but lovingly tended by my husband's own hands. 

And because today, we are allowed to be cheesy, this is what he has to say about this subject: 

"Love is not a sudden outpouring of rain but the gentle drizzle that keeps the garden in bloom all throughout the year."

Flowers, poetry and love ~ no, they don't need a special day to be celebrated. 

New Year's Day Walk

There is little joy in England during winter. 

Perhaps, if there had been a blanket of snow to cover the bleak and dreary landscape outside our window, I would have felt a little cheered up. But as expected, we had to make do with a sky who loves playing hide and seek with the sun and occasionally splashing out drizzling rain to those amongst us who cannot escape to warmer places. 

During the last day of the year, I finally cried out to John to take me out of the cold and somber walls of the old Victorian terrace that was my prison for the last two weeks, thanks to my job letting us 'work from home'. So on New Year's Day, with a weather forecast of sunny spells and a double digit temperature, we headed off to the Peak District. 

There are countless walking paths in the national park but we decided to conquer Stanage Edge, a rather impressive gritstone escarpment situated on the moors north of Hathersage. I have previously begged my husband to take me there (with no success) so that I can stand on the rock where Keira Knightley stood during a sweeping panoramic scene in the 2005 film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. Of course, I'm rather embarrassed to admit that now. 

We started off from the car park right at the bottom of the stone edges and it was a short climb to the top. On a bright summer day it would have been an easy ascent but with the strong winds trying to knock us off, it wasn't a pleasant one. 

This has not deterred a lot of people from doing the walk, in fact, there were already walking groups and families ahead of us with children as young as three jumping from one rock to the other as they marched towards the end of the 6-kilometer long plateau. 

We loitered behind, taking on the views and snapping photos using a less sophisticated point-and-shoot camera, our Christmas present to ourselves, which did not have disappointing results. This frequent stopping meant that we had to turn around halfway through as the weather condition started deteriorating. 

The trek down was easier and halfway through, we captured a rainbow as it began to fade. Moments later when we were already in the car, rain poured like there was no tomorrow. 

The British weather is not the best in the world but at least it teaches us to be grateful for the little joys in life ~ a bit of sunshine, a glimpse of a rainbow, a 10-degree temperature ~ because they don't come often, not at the same time. 

The Moon Smiled That Night

The last days of summer brings with it an air of disquiet, as any change in life often does. With the days slowly getting shorter and the gusty winds starting to accrue, it is tempting to stay indoors. And that was what I had intended to do on that afternoon in September after the chores have been done. 

But John had a different idea: the sky was clear and the sun was out that so why waste a perfectly good opportunity to enjoy the great outdoors, he reasoned.  

Last minute whims like these are somewhat made easier by the fact that we live in one of the greenest cities in Europe, surrounded by 2million trees which equate to four mature trees for every person living here. Within five minutes from our house is an open countryside called the Loxley Common, a beautiful patch of green in the fringe of Sheffield popular for bird-watchers, dog-walkers and students of geology.

So at six o’clock that day with still a few hours before sunset, we walked hand in hand along the path made by generations of walkers. The ground along the tracks is strewn by wild flowers that have grown to almost human proportions. We followed the path that led us along the slope of the hill where the heathers have fully bloomed into its beautiful shade of purple. At a lover’s seat we sat down to take on the beauty that nature so abundantly displays. Across the horizon, the top of the houses from the northern side of the city looked like pieces from a board game. But the urban flurry is lost in this piece of heaven where the only sounds you can hear the occasional barking of dogs and the random singing of birds.

We stayed there for a while and I uttered a silent prayer for the many little things that make our cup overflow and most of all, for the ability to see these blessings as they are thrown our way. 

We went straight to the local public house for dinner, a treat we seldom indulge in. It was already dark when we came out and the moon followed us to the car. I remembered reading about a lover who declared: 

"I will give you all the flowers of the mountain."

The author noted that poets in love seem to have very little notion of reality. But at that moment I knew exactly what the poet's muse would have felt , for my own beloved could just as well have said: 

"I will make the moon smile for you."

Because that night the moon did. And I smiled back. 

A Dose of AMS: On Love

The Scottish writer Alexander McCall Smith, the author of The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency and many others, is now my favourite author mostly because of the deep and profound reflections usually mouthed or thought of by his rather flawed but interesting characters. They are people I can easily identify with, some of them even think like me and think of others the way I would have thought about them (which is not always the right way admittedly). 

This particular lines from his Isabel Dalhousie novel, The Charming Quirks of others, is one of those thoughts that could have been my own and because I couldn't have written it better, I would love to share it: 

"We do not need to look for reasons for love - it is simply there; it comes upon us without invitation, without reason sometimes; it surprises us when we are least expecting it, when we thought our hearts were closed or that we were not ready, or we imagined it would never happen to us because it had not happened before. But if I were to ask myself why I love you, or perhaps try to find what is the main cause of my being in love with you, perhaps it is because you are generous in spirit. It is not because you are beautiful, not because I see perfection in your features, in your smile, in your litheness --  all of which I do, of course I do, and have done since the moment I first met you. It is because you are generous in spirit; and may I be like that; may I become like you -- which unrealistic wish, to become the other, is such a true and revealing symptom of love, its most obvious clue, its unmistakable calling card."

One Fine Autumn Day

“I wonder what the trees must feel when the leaves start to fall.”

I was thinking out loud while my husband and I were walking through a tunnel of red, gold and orange foliage raining down and swirling around us until finally they land on the brightly carpeted ground.  It was a crisp mid-October morning with barely any clouds in the sky, a perfect day for a photo walk in the park at the bottom of our road.

“I suppose they would be glad, it must be very heavy carrying all that weight on their shoulders for at least six months,” I declared. It was ridiculous of course and John laughed, telling me that it is the branches that are heavy and not the leaves. But I argued that with the number of leaves a tree must carry, it could be very wearing and so they would probably be glad to have a seasonal break. There was no response to that, he is used to these wild contentions.

We carried on our walk, not oblivious to the crunching sound of dried leaves under our feet and the occasional squirrel running across our path as they gathered their winter stash. It was a typical weekend morning at Hillsborough Park: younger children in trolleys while older ones are playing football; dogs on their leads while their walkers are chatting with one another; and cyclists on their bikes while lovers walk hand in hand. Near the bottom of the park was a little man-made lake with squealing toddlers feeding the visiting ducks and geese.

“Britain is not all that bad you know,” I said, taking in the sights. At that moment, it felt very idyllic, the British lifestyle up North, away from the hustle and bustle of megacities (although of course Sheffield itself is a big city that has managed to keep itself suburban rather than metropolitan). Fifteen minutes on the tram and we are in the city centre, ten minutes in the car and we are in the countryside. Our community in Hillsborough is almost like a town: with a shopping district, a Methodist Church, a primary school, a college, a library, a leisure centre and more importantly, home to Sheffield Wednesday’s football ground.

“I didn’t say it was bad,” John replied. “In small doses it is beautiful. But there are better places to live in.” By that he meant warmer and he is right of course. The forecast on the Breakfast News that morning predicted days of mists hovering over the city’s skyline starting the next day, the less exciting bits of autumn was about to unfold. But at that moment, I’ve let the splashes of colours under the bright blue sky make me forget the gloomy days ahead. Yes, there are beautiful days in England but not a jolly lot of them that when you get one, it makes you block out memories of the less memorable days of the year.

Three Years Today

Summer of 2009 was a rather eventful season. I have just turned 25 going spinster (and the butt of the family joke 'Never been kissed, never been touched'). I have finally crossed the other side of the border and stepped on Spanish soil only after a year of living in Gibraltar. I have bought myself a Nikon D60 before boarding the ferry to Tangiers and was rather proud of my first SLR outputs. To top it off, our British friend said my photos 'captured the atmosphere' of the place.

Just days after we have crossed the Straight of Gibraltar, we embarked on another weekend get-away with friends in a campsite in Marbella. Encouraged by his interest in my photography, we started a conversation and over the course of the weekend, discovered a similar outlook in life and the same passion for travel and adventure.   

I have written about the man of my dreams long before I met him. I have waited and prayed for him over the years. So when he finally found me, I already knew but I had to keep my fingers crossed that God would also know I was ready.

That weekend was followed with four days of subtle flirting over our Facebook statuses, a text message with an 'x' and an eventual confession through an electronic message. There was nothing British 'Do you fancy going out for a drink' about it nor my response a hard-earned Filipino 'Yes' after long periods of courtship. It was as unconventional as only two non-conformists can get away with. 

So on this very night 36 months ago, to top up an already eventful summer, I had my very first kiss in the middle of a dance floor, with half of Gibraltar dancing to the classics of Abba. It was long and sweet, and everything I have dreamt it would be like. 

What followed is an exciting roller coaster ride involving weekend trips in Costa del Sol and Portugal; European city breaks; getting married; moving to Britain; becoming a football (supporter's) wife; learning to be domesticated; crossing the Bosphorus and meeting our Turkish family; driving around the English countryside; visiting my family back home; losing our passports in Central Europe; driving around Scotland and reaching Wale's highest point. This kind of lifestyle has once or twice left us broke and unemployed yet inspired and worldly-wise. Perhaps success has evaded us but happiness has not, and for that we are blessed.     

Three years today, life as we knew it, took on a different light. But for two people who have spent every single day together since then (apart from the few weeks before and after our wedding day), it has always felt longer than that.  

Dinner by the Docks

Sitting by the dock. Eating fish and chips. Watching the sunset. Bliss!

In its heyday, the Kyle of Lochalsh had been abuzz with tourists staying overnight for the next day trip to the spectacular Isle of Skye. After the controversial bridge linking the island to the rest of Scotland, the visitors skipped the town and what is left felt like a bleak little town gloating on its former glory. 

This impression might seem rather harsh and is largely owing to the two uneventful nights we have spent in the Kyle Hotel, a run-down building that has definitely seen better days. From the dull white exterior which looks like it hasn't had the service of a decent architect, the inside wasn't much to look at either. The long, dark and tight hallways would remind you of Asian horror flicks. The thin strips of walls would wake you up in the middle of the night to the voices of drunken Americans stumbling their way to their rooms next door. The rooms themselves were small and dingy, the sort of place where you couldn't wait to get out of. But for all your woes, they charged more than the lovely bed and breakfasts in Edinburgh. 

We have never met any locals, not on the street and not even on the hotel where we were served by nervous looking young women from other parts of Europe wearing all black and would jump at the orders being barked from the other side of the kitchen doors. But these people smiled and offered a good service at least, making it easier to gobble the greasiest English breakfast we've ever tasted. 

No, I wouldn't say the Kyle of Lochalsh is a romantic place. But one evening in May, after a long day of travelling half-way through Scotland, we had dinner by the docks. Eating our humble fish and chips from a take away (owned by an Aussie), we watched the sun as it was about to set at half-past ten in the evening while the pigeons hovered around us, waiting for their leftovers. 

I live for special moments like this. 

Where the Rainbow Ends

"This must be heaven, this is where the rainbow ends. " ~ A Wise Man

Today hasn't been the best of days. I went to see the GP complaining about stomach pains (someone has been  sticking needles to my voodoo doll, my sister said) that keeps me awake in the early hours in the morning. I've also been coughing some gooey substance that doesn't look so nice at all. Then when I went to the pharmacist this morning, they couldn't dispense the medicine because of some IT malfunction so I was told to come back later in the day. 

But I was working from home and I was loathe to leave the workstation unmanned so I asked my husband to pick them up. Minutes later, rain poured heavily amidst a bright sunny sky so I was naturally worried that he had been caught on it. 

Then the rain stopped and I heard him shouting from downstairs "Olivee look out the front window!" 

And there it was, the spectacle of a rainbow just in front of the house. He rushed back to share with me that magical moment before it fades away and it has made my day look so much brighter.  

It's always nice to be reminded that I have found my heaven on earth, right where the rainbow ends. 

The Andalusian Dream

The first time John invited me over for dinner, he took out a road map of Andalusia, that most beautiful piece of land area that is the South of Spain. He pointed out the places he wanted to go to -  Jaen...Granada...Cordoba...Seville...they were just names to me then. But it showed me a hunger for travel and adventure, a hunger I also feel. I told him that he should take me with him. 

When people ask me how I met my husband, I would reply that we have met where our dreams crossed paths. His was to escape the country of his birth to a place where there are no chilly winters but days filled with glorious sunshine. Mine was to explore a world bigger than the pages of my books where one can live in the mountains and can still embrace a civilised way of life. Our choice of professions (as a nurse and an accountant) brought us to Gibraltar and allowed us to have a taste of our dreams. 

On our first weekend get-away we went on a crazy drive up to the mountain top city of Ronda. We've been to more romantic places since then but that one had been definitely special. We strolled under the orange trees planted along the stone paths. We marvelled at the magnificent beauty of nature that awaited us from the viewpoint. We rested under the delightful warmth of the afternoon sun while the gentle breeze kissed our cheeks. 

In Spain, you forget the time but you always remember the littlest of details of those special moments. 

Leaving Gibraltar meant John would have to defer his Andalusian dreams for three years at least. It wasn't an easy decision to make and in times of difficulties it would often haunt us. We have left behind well-paying jobs, a supportive church family and above all else, the warm weather.

But one dream had to be put off for another: of a border-less world which no longer requires visa applications and immigration queues. My dreams over his, his sweetest sacrifice.

I would like to think that it hasn't been futile. During the last two years, we have definitely grown much wiser and more confident. We now have a much better idea of what we want out of life, where we want to be and how we will get there.

Our Andalusian dream is as alive today as it has always been. Before we will know it, our barefoot toes will once again be playing with the soft sands on the shores of Costa del Sol where we once watched the golden sun set over the horizon.

The Colour of Beautiful

Her skin, the colour of mellow bronze, glistens brightly against the summer sky. Her hair, thick and startlingly black, dangles loosely like the waves of the raging ocean. 

In the Western world this is how I have often been described, the colour of my skin and the texture of my hair is something most of them aspire. 

Where I came from, I was just plain 'maitim' (dark-skinned) with a very messy hair, not fitting of the nation's idea of fair skinned and stick straight-haired "beautiful". 

The happy childhood memories are somewhat marred by the playground banters that centred on the colour of my skin. Before Coco, my family nickname, became associated with Chanel, there was a Filipino song “A coconut nut is a giant nut” that followed me throughout my younger years. Then growing up, the usual compliment (or lack thereof) I would receive was that I “would have been beautiful if you had lighter complexion”. Some people had other ideas “You are lucky for the colour of your skin", they told me."You will be very popular with the foreigners” as though I am an exotic commodity who will peddle herself to the first bidder. I resented that most.

There was nothing I wanted more than to be considered ‘normal’, I didn’t even ask to be beautiful. I would have been tempted to pay for whitening products like most of my compatriots have done but I was sensible enough to realise that true love looks beyond the colour of my skin.

And indeed once in Europe, true love eventually found me. In a story that seemed like The Ugly Duckling coming to life, I have found the place where I can be myself, with dark skin and curly hair, and still be beautiful. 

A Garden That Blooms Every Day

I don’t get an occasional bunch of flowers to surprise me, I get to have a garden that blossoms everyday. Love is not about grand romantic gestures but little things that keep the spark alive. 

Romance and Jane Austen

It was Boxing Day and with John off later on a 14-hour night shift, there was little else to do but sit in front of the television (whilst doing the ironing). As usual, I quickly scanned BBC i-Player but found nothing interesting other than the documentary The Many Lovers of Jane Austen which explored how an anonymous minor novelist in her own time is 200 years later recognised as a unique British literary genius.

I have a complete collection of Austen novels gathering dust on my shelves, along with other books I have promised to read when time permits. I have only read Pride and Prejudice but this afternoon, I had the chance to watch the movie adaptations of her books. Since I first knew him, I have fallen in love with Mr Darcy and have imagined myself as Elizabeth Bennett which perhaps explains my penchant for Korean dramas that follows the same storyline. But alas my love story was not to be the same. No, I fancy that my fate had been more aligned with Catherine Morland of Northanger Abbey who in her infancy, no one would have supposed to be born a heroine. In fact the qualities of her Mr Tilney’s are not unlike those of my husband’s, who first engaged me in conversations as a friend not oblivious to my apparent attraction then later on allowed himself to fall for my ‘candour and open character’, overlooking my occasional flaws.

Watching Jane Austen has made me realise once again how fortunate I am to be born in this generation where my life choices are not limited by my family’s fortune (or lack thereof) and my options on marriage are not restricted by the financial suitability of the union. Yes, I am blessed indeed to have found a man whose love could only equal mine.

I have often written of love, or at least what I have believed of it, before I have found it – of skipping heartbeats, of secret glances and of sleepless nights torturing over what had been and not been said.  Ahh, there’s nothing as romantic and yet as tormenting as unrequited love and for those I’ve had a few. But of true love, I have none but one and the discovery of which have crippled my literary superfluousness. For when one experiences real love, the sort that is felt and lived, one never finds the right words to describe it or talk about it.

I am still as much a hopeless romantic as I have always been. In fact, of recently my standards have risen and they continue to be met. On the subject of flowers, I do not receive an occasional bunch for my very own gardener has made sure that I get to admire them from our window every day. And no, I do not get taken out on casual dates to fancy restaurants but I’m regularly whisked off to embark on exciting adventures far and near. But most importantly of all, my husband shares my father’s most loving trait in that they are both reliable with the house chores, what more could a wife ask for?   

I have not been a fan of romantic movies of recently, not the ones that they tend to make in Hollywood at the moment characterised by movies such as ‘No Strings Attached’. But I enjoyed my afternoon with Jane Austen’s characters, women some have deemed to be filled with emotional restraint and lacking of passion and yet have managed to find their perfect match without so much as baring a flesh. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why Jane Austen’s novels survives through the ages. Virtue is rewarded and true love wins in the end. 

When God Answers Prayers

It was the day after my 25th birthday. It was the day I stood up in front of the church congregation for a last-minute testimony to thank God for the quarter of the century past. It was the day I met my Destiny.

I can remember it almost so vividly now. I stood up with all the confidence I could muster. I stared at the friendly faces looking back eagerly at me. I opened my mouth. Then as expected, I started croaking like a frog. But it didn’t matter. I was in the company of the people who would listen anyway.

I have spent twenty-five years walking with God, sometimes stumbling along the way but always getting up stronger after the fall. Most of the time I have been stubborn, insistent upon my desires but I learned that whenever I let go, I could never fall. There have been moments I have faced uncertainties, battled with indecisions but never once did I doubt the existence of the Force that answered my prayers more than not.

But I also do remember telling everyone how despite all my blessings, I still somehow felt disappointed because I was living a life so different from the one I imagined I would have at 25. How I was scared that I would never experience what most people already have. And yet how, despite the gloomy future, I remained hopeful that I am still to see the fullness of the plan my Master has drafted for my life.

I had no idea then that the wheels of destiny started to turn that day.

It was at a joint birthday celebration where the rest of the Filipino community got together a few hours after I finished with the Open Arms. Drinks, Filipino dishes, karaoke and photo sessions are the flavours of the day. And of course, Tita’s friend from the hospital would be coming along later that night.

Most of my friends have met him in April, three months after he came over from the UK with a six-month contract as a nurse at the hospital. I have heard stories about him and received invites to go out with them for drinks or coffee where he was also expected. I was never interested; I couldn’t be bothered to be “talking in English”. Besides, I have never been sociable with men, how much more with men from another ‘planet’,.

So I only had a quick look of him that night (and I thought he’s cute). I wasn’t able to witness his videotaped karaoke performance of “I Swear” in his more-than-one-glass-of-wine state as I was busy with my photo shoots and playing with the little kids. He couldn’t even remember me from that day. I was just “one of faces”.

After becoming an adopted member of the Filipino community in Gibraltar, we’ve met a few more times during the gatherings and the special events but we never talked. Except on one occasion towards the end of July when we celebrated the receipt of our schengen visa with a picnic at the Rosia Bay. It wasn’t even a conversation; I just answered a question or two but that was when he first remembered me.

Then Morocco happened, a reluctant trip I took in August because I wasn’t allowed to take a previously booked holiday in Rome. And so in Tangier where Santiago (of ‘The Alchemist’) began his search for his Treasure I began the quest to follow my greatest dream.

It may be the mystique of the tiny alleyways all over the Medina or the magic of the exquisitely made carpets we have both been talked to buy. It may be the smell of the incense from the little shops along the way or the taste of the kuskus from the local restaurant where a di Caprio movie was shot. It may be the atmosphere of adventure after crossing the seas to another continent or the tone of romance looming over the air. Or maybe all that conspired in merging together two different worlds in one universe.

But nothing magical happened then, except perhaps it made him realize that I was indeed more than just a blur in the traffic of faces that walk past his mundane existence.

When we met again in a camping trip to Marbella, I found myself being drawn out of the cocoon that was my comfort zone. Before I knew it I was talking about myself as I would to people I have known for years. Suddenly I was stripped off my inhibitions, fears and insecurities. And the consciousness dawned on me: this is the man I have only dreamt and written about.

It was such a painful realization because I remembered a Jane Austen quotation from Northanger Abbey:

"No young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman's love is declared, it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her."

But instead of wallowing over my confusion and building more walls that would block the imminent heartbreak I thought I was meant to suffer, I prayed like I have never prayed before. Yet more than a prayer from a weeping child desperate for a toy that would easily break, I surrendered my heart. Because I know He will lead the way, however long it will take for me to get there.

Then just when I least expected Him to, God answered my prayers—a bit too quickly. It was scary at first. Some people thought it was too sudden, how he didn’t even need to earn my heart. I have always been the predictable one: practical and ‘too analytical’. But when I made my plunge into those waters, the first one I’ve ever made in my life, I’ve let go fully.

There was never an ounce of regret. There were no what-ifs. And yes, he is everything I have ever written him to be, his love more than I have ever hoped I could find.

So when he knelt on his knees and asked for my hands, I couldn’t say no. He didn’t really need to ask. I knew of his existence long before I’ve met him. I knew of his love even by just the look in his eyes. I knew of his promise of forever, the moment God answered my prayers.

He Exists

For most of my life I have loved the same man…somebody not mine, not yet.



I haven’t actually met him but I have a rough idea of what he looks like. I have a more specific take on how he thinks, what he feels. I have an almost exact sense on how he makes me feel.



I’ve imagined him to be someone straight out of my Korean novellas – rather quiet that’s often mistaken for snobbishness, attractive for his brains and with a Mona Lisa smile that would melt me to my knees.



I love the fact that he cracks weird jokes and tells them when the timing is right that no matter how ridiculous, you just have to laugh. He goes to church almost unfailingly on Sundays, sitting quietly on the corner and uttering his silent prayer. He knows what he wants with his life, doesn’t mind sweating over it or struggling hard just to get there.



He listens to my stories without snoring on me, laughs when I am funny and tells me when I’m not. He likes taking long walks with me, holding my hands, and squatting somewhere grassy to look at the sunset or wait for the sunrise. He enjoys surprising me with a single red rose, a scribbled line from a song or poetry and sometimes an off-tune song that would still sound romantic.



He’s not perfect. There would be times when he would want to chill out with his friends with a glass of whiskey or two and I would mind. There would be moments when he would be a strain to understand. There would be instances when he would make me weep even over trivial things.



But he would know where to tickle my funny bones. His soothing words would ease away my insecurities. His warm embrace would cool away my anger. His kisses would comfort my troubled heart.



I’ve asked God for him a dozen times and He didn’t listen. I tried to settle for someone less, it didn’t work. So I figured, I waited this long, I might just as well wait for him longer.



The thing is, I’ve been told that the man I love doesn’t exist. I’ve never met him. I might never meet him. Or maybe, someone’s already got him.



But I need to believe that he’s out there somewhere, looking for me and wondering where I am. I need to believe that he’s dreaming of me too and anticipating for the moment when our worlds would finally meet, when the distance would no longer be unbearable and when we are finally freed from our uncertainties. I need to believe in his reality because I need to hold on to the hope that one day he would come for me, like a dashing prince in his white horse who would kiss the Sleeping Beauty that was always in me.