Take me, please,
to the poets’ tombs.
Let me wander
among quiet stones.

This section marks a shift in the poem.

From inward reflection, the speaker—I—begins to move outward. Not into the world of the living, but into a space shaped by those who came before. It is not a literal place, but something imagined, symbolic, and deeply rooted in meaning.

The phrase “Take me, please” carries a quiet longing. It suggests a desire to be led somewhere—not just physically, but emotionally and intellectually. It is a request for guidance, for connection, for understanding.

The “poets’ tombs” may initially evoke images of death. But within the context of the poem, they represent something far more enduring.

They are markers of presence.

They hold the traces of voices that once existed—voices that shaped language, captured emotion, and gave meaning to experiences long before this poem was written.

To stand among them is not to grieve.

It is to listen.

A Quiet Longing

As I celebrate my birthday, I find myself aware that I am nearer to thirty than I am to twenty.

It feels like I am at a stage in life where I should already be “secure”—or at least certain of what I want.

At times, I feel far from achieving my dreams. I catch myself thinking that by this age, I should have already published my books.

This line became, in a way, my quiet call for help.

A desire to be shown the path that other poets and writers have taken—to understand how they arrived where they are, so that I, too, may find my way.

Not to replace them, but to stand beside them.
To be among them.

The Meaning of the Place: Continuity of Voice

This imagined space becomes a meeting ground between past and present.

The poets may no longer be physically present, but their words remain. Their thoughts, their emotions, their ways of seeing the world—all of these continue to exist through what they have written.

In this way, writing becomes something that outlives the writer.

It becomes a quiet inheritance.

Something passed down—not through direct instruction, but through shared experience. Through the recognition that someone, somewhere, has felt something similar before.

Standing among these “quiet stones” is not an act of mourning. It is an act of acknowledgment.

I begin to realize that I am not alone in what I feel or in what I write.

There is a continuity in expression—a thread that connects one voice to another across time.

First Connections Through Reading

Growing up reading Filipino pocketbooks, I developed a deep connection to romance authors.

I admired how they structured their stories—the way they built momentum, crafted dialogue, and shaped character arcs.

Whenever I became immersed in their work, it felt as though I was transported into another world—one where I did not merely observe but belonged.

Looking back, I realize that my connection was not with the authors themselves, but with the lives and emotions of the characters they created.

Lilac and Berry Tones: A Place I Recognize

Lilac and berry tones—
a place where I belong.

With these lines, the atmosphere softens.

The space is no longer defined by stillness or silence alone. It becomes colored—emotionally and visually—by memory and warmth.

Lilac carries a sense of nostalgia. It is gentle, almost fragile, like a memory that lingers without overwhelming.

Berry tones deepen that feeling. They add richness—a quiet intensity that grounds the softness in something more tangible.

Together, these colors transform the setting.

It is no longer distant or unfamiliar.

It becomes intimate.

It becomes a place that feels known.

Meaning of Color

The line “lilac and berry tones” draws from my favorite colors—red and purple.

Red represents passion—the fire that drives me to write.
Purple signifies depth and reflection—the kind of understanding that grows over time.

My writing carries both.

The boldness of red.
The quiet mystery of purple.

And in this part of the poem, I come to admit that these tones belong among the quiet stones of those who came before me.

Recognition & Belonging: The Shift

I am no longer searching.

I am recognizing.

There is a quiet realization that unfolds within this space—that writing is not an isolated act but part of something larger.

A lineage of thought.
A continuity of feeling.
A shared language of expression.

The “I” in the poem begins to understand itself not as separate, but as connected— to those who came before, and to the emotions that have been written, rewritten, and rediscovered across time.

Belonging, in this sense, is not about ownership.

It is about participation.

Becoming a Writer Slowly

From scribbling on paper as a child, to writing diary entries and fragments of poetry, to eventually shaping short stories—my sense of belonging to writing did not arrive all at once.

It grew, quietly, over time.

This Is Not Mourning (Author’s Note)

This is not mourning.

This is belonging.

What first appears to be a somber image—standing among tombs—reveals itself to be something else entirely.

This is not about loss.

It is about continuity.

It is about recognizing that even in silence, something remains. That even in absence, there is still presence.

I do not stand there to grieve what has ended.

I stand there to acknowledge what continues.

What I Truly Want

This part of the poem is, in many ways, the most delicate.

Because while I begin to recognize that I belong among writers and poets, what I truly long for is simpler than that.

I want to write.

Whether as a poet or as a romance author—what matters is the act itself.

A place where I belong

There are places we go not to find answers, but to understand where we stand.

And sometimes, in the quietest spaces—among words that are no longer being written, but still being felt—we begin to realize: we were never writing alone.