That was the only dream that ever felt so real, the only dream that clearly stands out from the rest simply because you were in it.  I remember those sheets of paper, once engraved with the lyrics to the songs I used to sing, the songs I composed from scratch, the songs that found a way out of my heart and intertwined with my fingers as they played each note thoroughly, as though no other could accommodate it.  Those were the songs you used to sing with me, the notes you taught me, as those sheets of paper held your faded, yet still comforting scent.  As I’ve pushed these papers into boxes and left-behind the memories, they collected dust and traveled for miles without being touched.  Days became weeks, weeks became months, months became years.  And now, after God knows how many years, I find myself staring at those boxes, scanning through the papers like an old photo album, forgetting the painful memories that lay behind some of the most beautiful notes.  Scrimmaging through the songs, trying to relive each memory, and within a couple sheets there it was.  The words that were once was so bold were now faded, but that doesn’t take away any meaning.  How could a piece of paper be so endearing, yet contain words that feel so repulsive?  Eager to play the song, I caught myself reminiscing on the memories that lay behind the words, the meaning behind each lyric.  I remember those songs.  Those songs I used to write about you, for you, those songs I used to spend days to weeks trying to perfect, so eager to show you, in finding an excuse to simply see you again.  Those songs I never finished, but always played.  It’s as if somehow you were guiding me, playing through me. 

I miss you, kuya.