Verses and Vignettes

12/04/2026

Leyte, where familiarity and memories sway like poems, written by Verses and Vignettes tells the story of an author revisiting a place once filled with love. It traces how he recalls the moments he shared with his partner—the life they once imagined building together—as he returns to the very place where those dreams once felt certain.

Years have passed, and the words they once etched into their messages now live only in memory. As the author sets foot in Leyte again, he confronts the quiet weight of loss, revisiting fragments of a love that remains only in echoes. In this return, he commemorates not just what was lost, but what still lingers—familiar, yet forever changed.

Read the whole story on Medium:

But when I think of Leyte, I think of your name—and our story with epilogue that you alone, had the courage to write.

31/03/2026

Syntax Buried in Symbols
by Verses and Vignettes, March 2026

Synopsis: A language unspoken, a truth trapped in symbols beyond understanding. This poem calls to recognize its meaning and give it a voice before it’s buried in the noise of nothingness.

I felt like a garden—
with thorns, buried in absence.
A language even experts
could not interpret,
nor fully name.

It speaks in symbols,
in pauses of withheld meaning—
something the academe tries to read,
yet never understands.

But a language is not a garden
where absence is meant to be buried.

It should have a name.

If there is a symbol you keep encrypted,
buried in languages beyond language,
let it be called.

Do not leave it dying
in the structure of your mutedness.

29/01/2026

November passed a long time ago—a moment when we honor the life of someone who has departed from the world we live in.

But grief, in whatever season, time, or day, doesn’t depart so easily if we don’t know how to cope. Some cope with grief by listening to music and letting their emotions overflow. Some dance to release it, while others paint.

For me, I write letters to cope with grief. I write letters, asking what they would say if they witnessed my turning points. I write letters and pour out the things I wish they could have said.

I write letters as if pain suffocates me with every drop of ink, letting the pen bleed tears that my eyes cannot shed.

Grief is not linear. It can strike in any season, at any hour—even in moments when you feel healed, only to be brought back by a dream of them.

Grieving someone is not a weakness. It is the echo of a love so profound it transcends memory—memory into meaning, and meaning into the silent endurance that keeps us alive, even after losing someone we loved most.

31/10/2025

WE'RE ON TIKTOK!

Every verse tells a story. Every vignettes paints a feeling.
Join us on TikTok — ✨😍

31/10/2025

Two years of carrying the passion — the quill behind verses, and the flame still remembers its first spark. What began as a simple desire to express what could no longer be kept inside has become a home for emotions, stories, and healing — a journey told through verses and vignettes.

Read the 2nd year anniversary message of Verses and Vignettes here on Medium:

Two years of carrying the passion — the quill behind verses, and the flame still remembers its first spark. This isn’t just an anniversary…

23/10/2025

I never waited for your reply after I sent my message at 9:12 in the evening of September 15th — that was after everything we gone through: my sudden disappearance, the arguments that we had that turned into a scandal, and how we calm the storm from the rage we had before.

You were a season written with an elixir that appears in my dreams, something worth to be kept in memories, something that somehow, only exists in an alternative universe.

And this letter that was once hidden in a drawer, words that was hidden in a 2005 notebook, dedicated to someone like you has finally reached its end — a coup de'etat of secrecy, something you will find peace after.

The feed, the group, will forget my name, the bond that we had will be replaced by someone you knew for the first time, just like how we did them. The door shuts, and my existence fades like an issue that was once popular and entertaining, yet faded like a show that no one is interested to watch.

If someday, the connection between us fades, may the memory of us remain like a newspaper archived — an issue that was dissolved quickly, yet remembered still, as though it had been preserved in a museum for thirty centuries

I leave this letters as a proof of the fire, and walk into the hush that waits beyond it.

𝐅𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
from the Unreleased Chapter of Anecdotes of a Poet's Silence Buried in Monologue

22/10/2025

Hello, Instagram! ✨

I'm officially on Instagram as

If you've been following my journey here, I'd love for you to join me there too! ❣️

See you there.

30/09/2025

𝗔𝗻𝗲𝗰𝗱𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁'𝘀 𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗕𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗠𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀
𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲

Anecdotes of a Poet's Silence Buried in Monologue is finally complete, and I'm grateful you chose to share this quiet journey with me.

This project is my personal note. Some of the pieces within it — especially the original version of the 10th chapter, never reached to the public. In fact, a few were left unfinished, because while I was writing this, I realized something important: even when silence haunts us, it carries a purpose. It is a silence that eventually stirs us awake and helps us face, and accept the consequences we carry.

As we close the month of September and October begins tomorrow, I think of all the unwritten stories we carry, the poems that shaped us, but never find their ways to paper. Perhaps, this change of season is a chance for us to accept the invitation that offers us for a long time — to lay those quiet memories down, to let the old wounds rest, and to trust that healing exists even in silence.

Finally, may the coming days also open a new path for each of us: a place of comfort, curiosity, and a small, steady joys. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for being part of this journey. Here's to a new beginnings and the stories yet to be written.

30/09/2025

𝐀𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎: 𝐉𝐲𝐱𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐚'𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟓 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤

5 February 2005

My love, Houston:

By the time these words reach your eyes, I hope you are cradled in a night stitched with silver moonlights and dreamscapes where mountain and rivers sings. I write to you now with a weight I hope will not stir a tempest in your chest.

I know, not by spy's deceit, but by tracing the quiet currents of your heart — you are once more with Eleftheria. You swore like a sacred oath carved into your soul when you engraved an oath upon the pillars of thy office, that you would never destroy her fragile peace. And yet, though she stretch forth her hand, seeking to bridge the chasm she left, and behold, the past has already planted its roots deep, the seasons, you now currently see, cannot be reversed.

I will not dictate your path. I leave the fates to weave as they will, allowing heaven's tapestry to dance as fate whispers. I withdraw myself, a shadow swallowed by night, that my name dissolves into the ether of your mind.

In my absence, I pray that you cradle her heart like a frame in a lanter, fragile and luminous. Let thy hand uplift her spirit, not crush it; let it shine as though a star caught between your hands, radiant, and untouchable, deserving of reverence.

If perchance, my memory drifts towards me, let it be as leaves adrift upon a silent pond, ripping, but never rooting. For I am but a reflection of horror — a ghastly, attrocious, echo, a story too grotesque for the lens of any film.

Forget me, I pray. Let my voice vanish like smoke through a silvered dream. Hear nothing, speak not my name, nor summon my shade.

And Houston... hear thy angel's whispers between the threads of your choices. Extend and grant their mercy — a wish they plea for the very long time.

From the core of my soul,
Jyxalorethina

28/09/2025

𝗔𝗻𝗲𝗰𝗱𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁'𝘀 𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗕𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗠𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀
𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟵. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗜 𝗪𝗮𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗱

They say, the brain protects you from the pain you can’t handle, a certain grief that doesn't scream. It walks with you. I didn't tell you the truth, because if I did, I knew it would change everything. But then, I still told you the truth in a way that seems mellow --- and that changes everything. So, I let the verses that were written, ready to release rot inside me. Quietly. Softly. Like a secret I was forced to swallow because I hate the flavor.

I told myself, I wasn't catching feelings in this fictional world. But at some point, the way your name lingered longer than it should have at 3 AM, when I knew that I dreamed something about you, I knew I was lying.

I convinced myself that remaining online, replying to your messages — casually was steadiness, yet pain hidden in me. It bled so hard to the point that you never noticed them, and asking for clarity is like a post-mortem investigation, hoping for the silence to speak what your words never did. I wanted to believe that there was something I never saw — some signs from our friend of friends, or perhaps a whisper, and that’s how you played your part in a game that I never signed up to participate in. We never knew who decrypted the secrets behind the silence you give, and that’s what ruins me…

To give you a sign that I’ll be leaving is a storyline you constantly rewritten because the professor you consulted hated the plot, and there you are, trying to rewriting the plot, change the scenes, and even think of what could be the best ending that this story could become, yet you can find the ending and to wonder what would happen if I’m gone is like a road that you keep running yet don’t reach your destination. And it kills me because confusion has become its own grief—like I’ve been eaten like I was a leftover meat. Piece by piece. Even the parts of me you didn’t want were wrapped and stored, just in case you got hungry again.

And so, I left and shut down my profile, like it was a movie that had never been approved to be publicized, and it’s aching me that the answer that I was praying for was never found… And so, I ended the story, leaving the crowd confused and prayed to God that somehow, he would rewrite our story.

24/09/2025

𝗔𝗻𝗲𝗰𝗱𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁'𝘀 𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗕𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗠𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀
𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟴. 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗡𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗘𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗠𝘆 𝗡𝗮𝗺𝗲

I left without goodbye, thinking silence would be softer than honesty. But now I live with the weight of what I didn’t say. Your ghost lingers—quiet but relentless—etching my name into the stillness we once shared. It’s always late at night when I feel it most, like your memory is reaching out, tracing the verses I abandoned mid-sentence. You only read the beginning. The rest? I let it rot in drafts, in unsent letters, in devotions I deleted before they could mean something.

You never had the chance to read the truth—only drafts, scrapped letters, devotions I deleted before they could breathe. I never blocked you. I never explained why I left. I just departed quietly, convinced I could outrun whatever this was. But now, I linger in the empty space between yesterday’s monologue. Leaving you felt like I had died brutally, and even the national news couldn’t bear to deliver the information to the public. I cannot unwrite what we were. Because in the first place, there’s nothing to write that could make the audience feel a spark, a flutter, or the kind of lingering butterflies you feel when reading a story that matters. So the memory of us being friends remains—an unspoken monument buried in silence.

This is the consequence I must carry: letting our memory grow louder. Your name appears in songs you once mentioned, in dreams I never meant to have, in usernames that almost look like yours. And it haunts me—softly, endlessly, without rest.

I know I left something unfinished. Maybe you don’t think of me anymore. Maybe you’ve moved on without needing closure. Maybe you’ve even deactivated the account where we met. But I haven’t. I still carry the weight of the goodbye I never gave you—and it’s killing me more than I ever thought silence could.

So, if you’re reading this, somewhere, somehow… May you forgive me for what I did.
If your forgiveness can’t reach me, I’ll just pray that God hears what you cannot say,
and trust that even unanswered prayers are still answered by God.