There are many poems about love. But what about poems that talk about falling out of love? It’s way past Valentine’s Day, and perhaps it’s time to talk about literature that deal with heartbreak. One of my favorite poems about exactly that is a two-stanza wonder titled “Falling Out,” by Alfred Yuson—Krip to family and friends. It goes:

Falling Out

Saddest thing.
Falling out.
World smells
Of cat poop.
Even catsup
Needs catsup.

Sun stings.
Moon blinds.
Pet stars sway
Out of reach.
Wind feels, sounds
Like sandpaper.

What’s not to like? The poem is a succinct but powerful depiction of emotional distress, likely stemming from heartbreak, loss, or personal conflict. When we asked Mr. Yuson regarding its genesis and what occasioned it, he couldn’t remember: ““Naku, so long ago na,” he said. “But if couldn’t have been a break-up. Or maybe it was. Or the idea just came, unrelated to any recent experience then.”

Nonetheless, the poem speaks for itself. And speak it does. The brevity of its lines and the stark, unembellished language amplify the rawness of the speaker’s emotions, and every phrase in the poem conveys disorientation, discomfort, and an almost absurdist sense of despair, as if the world itself has turned against the speaker in the wake of their emotional breakdown.

It is a rare poem written in this style by Mr. Yuson, a renowned poet from Manila who nonetheless has called Dumaguete his “hometown.” A Palanca Hall-of-Famer and the author of countless books of poetry, fiction, essays, drama, and children’s literature (he has also authored three novels—Great Philippine Jungle Energy Café, Voyeurs & Savages, and The Music Child and the Mahjong Queen), he first came to Dumaguete in 1968 as a fellow of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, and was immediately taken in by the place. In his book, The Word on Paradise, he wrote about that introduction to Dumaguete:

“Poor Manileño never had a hometown. Until Dumaguete. I remember it as clearly as yesterday, that first ride on a slow-moving tartanilla, May of 1968. How I marveled at the manner of entry, at the fresh air of provincia, rustic redolence, aged acacias lining an avenue I instantly knew would lead to a long-imagined, long-elusive fountainhead…. I would have friends here. I just knew it. We would share time and joy together here, until the place itself would turn into a memorious intimate. It has happened. Come to pass. And it’s still, as they say, taking place. My Dumaguete friends and I continue to pass snatches of time together through decades of an evolving tapestry, absorbing layer upon fine layer of reminiscence. Those first three weeks in Dumaguete in the summer of 1968 had proven so thoroughly enjoyable that I swore to come back. Na-dagit. Hooked by her, the City of Gentle People.”

Certainly it is not a parting with Dumaguete that occasioned this poem.

The title of the poem immediately suggests a rupture—perhaps a break in a relationship, or a loss of connection, or a misunderstanding that has escalated into alienation—but the lack of a subject in the opening lines (“Saddest thing. / Falling out.”) makes the statement feel universal, applicable to any deep emotional rift. This vagueness, of course, allows readers to project their own experiences of loss onto the poem, making it widely relatable. For me, at least, it is about falling out of love.

What I like about it is its use of sensory imagery that evoke both discomfort, and eventual laughter. The phrase “World smells / Of cat poop” is both humorous and grotesque, but it also immediately sets a tone of disillusionment: the world, once familiar and perhaps even comforting, is now foul and unpleasant. (I have two cats. The smell of their poop is something else.) The humor in this line is subtle but significant, because it adds to the surreal and exaggerated quality of the speaker’s misery. This is reinforced by the next line: “Even catsup / Needs catsup.” This absurdist play on words, typical of Mr. Yuson, suggests that even simple pleasures, like a favorite condiment, have lost their ability to satisfy. The world is out of balance, and nothing is quite enough. 

Mr. Yuson extends this feeling of imbalance by describing the elements of nature in ways that make them seem harsh and unwelcoming. “Sun stings. / Moon blinds.” The sun, typically a symbol of warmth and life, becomes painful; while the moon, associated with guidance and reflection, instead overwhelms and obscures. This inversion of natural imagery reflects the speaker’s inner turmoil—everything feels wrong, even the forces of nature that usually offer stability. 

The next lines, “Pet stars sway / Out of reach,” introduce a sense of longing. The phrase “pet stars” actually evokes a personal connection to something distant and celestial, possibly dreams, or cherished memories. However, we get that these “stars” are no longer within reach, which emphasizes feelings of helplessness and isolation.

The poem ends with “Wind feels, sounds / Like sandpaper”—a particularly striking metaphor, as wind is usually associated with freedom, movement, and even solace. However, in this context, it becomes rough, grating, and painful. The fact that the wind “sounds” like sandpaper implies that even the auditory experience of the world has become abrasive, making every sensation unpleasant. 

What the poem eventually gives us is a masterful portrayal of emotional alienation. Yuson has captured the way heartbreak (or loss) can distort one’s perception of the world, making even the most ordinary experiences feel painful, frustrating, and surreal.