Bakit 'di pa tanungin
ang aking ngala't numero
at 'di lang ang petsa't
anong sinabi ng ****?

Bakit 'di pa alamin
ang pintig ng puso kong
inip na inip
nang maghintay sa iyo?

Bakit hanggang tingin?
Bakit hanggang ngiti?
Aking pag-ibig,
sinta, batid
mo na ba rin?

Bakit umiiwas;
bakit natatahimik -
bakit sa tuwina'y
lagi kang walang imik?

Para kay seatmate
na 'di ako pansin.
'Di mabatid,
'di mabalingan ng tingin.

'Di mo ba alam na sa bawat
wanfort na ihinihingi
*ay naitatangay nang utay-utay
ang aking puso't damdamin?

Tingin, tingin,
sa akin
mahal.
Hindi mo ba
tanaw?
Pagibig na
nagkukubli
sa lilim ng aking
mga mata?

Tingin, tingin,
puso,
magtigil!
Kinig, kinig,
o aking paraluman.
Hindi
mo ba kuliglig
ang tibok sa
aking dibdib?

Tingin, tingin,
hanggang tingin na lamang
ba?
Hanggang kumusta't
paalam na lang ba
ang itutura't
lalabas
mula sa 'yong labing
nais kong hagkan?

Tingin, tingin,
mahal,
ako'y
tingnan.
Pagmamahal ko'y
'di ba aninag?
Tingin, tingin,
paano nga ba?
Ngayo't puso mo'y tila
laan na para
sa iba?

Umahon ang buwan mula sa kanyang pagtulog. - sabik na sabik sinagan ang sanlibo't isang nayong naghihintay sa kinang niya.
Madilim at malamig; makapal ang mga ulap sa langit. Higit ang pagnanais sa kanyang pagdampi.

At siya'y lumiwanag.
Kumislap.
Ang kinang ng sigurado sa alon-along pagtatanong-tanong.

Ang nag-iisang tiyak sa langit ng duda.

Buong gabi niyang niyakap ang mga pueblong hitik sa pangamba. Winalis ang takot na dala ng langit na obskura.
Buong gabi niyang tangan ang bawat pulgada ng bahala.

Hanggang sa bumangon ang araw mula sa kanyang paghimbing
- sagisag ng kanyang muling paggilid.

Sa gilid.

Sa gilid ang kanyang pedestal.

Ano ang laban sa kinang na hatid ng araw? Lunduyan ng liwanag, sastre ng pagtitiyak.

Sa gilid ang kanyang pedestal.

Pagkat alam ng buwan na iba ang kislap niyang hatid - kinang na kikinang, ngunit 'di maglililimlim.
Kinang na pupuno lamang sa langit ng dilim; sa gilid

ang kanyang pedestal.

Pagkat iba panghabambuhay na paghalik sa pandaliang pagtangan;
na iba ang gusto
sa kailangan.

Isa, dalawa, tatlo
Pagbilang kong sampu, nakatago na kayo
Apat, lima, anim,
Magmadali, papatak na ang dilim
Pito, walo,
sa rimarim na ito sa’yo’y walang sasambot
siyam, sampu
pipindot na sila sa gatilyo

Naaalala ko pa noong matiwasay pa ang lahat
tahimik bukod sa sipol ng hangin na rinig na rinig
walang ingay sa paligid
puti ang sahig – linis hanggang gilid

Naalala ko pa noon,
walang pangambang tahi
sa bawat isa sa t’wing pumapatak ang gabi
Madilim ang lansangan,
ngunit may liwanag ang daan
Di mag-aalalang umuwi,
‘di magugulumihanan

Naaalala ko pa
nung una silang pumindot sa gatilyo
Nayanig ang paligid,
nagulo ang tahimik
Tintado na ang sahig na dating puti
ng dugo mula sa bago nilang kitil.

Naalala ko pa noong nagpasabog sila ng bomba
Nabingi ang lahat sa ingay na likha,
mga tarantang mukha,
mga takbong halos ikadapa
mga matang labong labo na
ng mga luha

Naalala ko pa noong kinuha nila si itay
lupa raw namin ay ayaw niyang ibigay
pinuno ng latay,
inuwing akay-akay -
muntik na siyang mamatay

- walang kamalay-malay
na kami’y unti-unting pinapatay

ni walang panahong
makinig saming salaysay

May dugo

ang bigas
na iginagatong ninyo

May bakas ng dahas
ang pagkaing hapag sa kainan ninyo

Mga sigaw
na busal ng kasadong gatilyo

May namamatay na dito
makinig naman kayo!

Isa, dalawa, tatlo
Pagbilang kong sampu, nakatago na kayo
Apat, lima, anim,
Magmadali, papatak na ang dilim
Pito, walo,
pipindot na sila sa gatilyo
Siyam, sampu

Galileo once told that two bodies that fall at exactly the same time, regardless of whatever, land at identical times, too. That regardless of how heavy or light their loads are or how dim or bright their souls are, when they fall, they fall.

Together.

And stay grounded, together.

But he dared not to tell of how two souls could ignite but still fail to heave each other’s flames.

Of how two bodies fall at the very same time,

*but never for each other.

I don't believe in ghosts.

Or maybe,
I think,
I do.

I do not believe in ghosts
that reek of blood.
Of those who ebb
out of tv screens;
of those who slither in
each dream.

But I do believe,
and fret, perhaps,
those who come
unexpectedly.

And leave
- then leave -
every piece of them
in each piece of you.

Of those whose kisses
trail down your spine,
only to find each tingling,
*gone.

I’m in a limbo. A state of equivocality. Everything hangs in the air, but I try to chart my daily course as I normally do. Times are tough. Uncertain, too. Notwithstanding, I’ve taken more than I can chew.

I’m in too deep. I’m in a dark place.

You see, I was the golden child. A beacon of light. Envy was nothing new to me. I rarely espoused it, but was the oft object of it. Little Miss Perfect – always so put together. Always has her things together. I have Midas Touch, they say. I’m on a plane higher than my peers – on a dais atop the average twenty-two year-old. I can do no wrong. Only upwards from here.

So they say.

So I thought.

Today, my days bleed into one another. Sunday? Monday? What difference does a name make? I run on two hours of sleep and three thirty-minute naps a day. I don’t wake up to my 5 AM alarm. Nor sleep through it. It throttles to life as I hurriedly read tomorrow’s later’s assigned readings. I might get some sleep in. I rarely do. Finish your readings. Finish your work. Finish your classes. Eat in between.

Objectively, I’m in a good place. Roof over my head. Food on my plate. More importantly, safe. No 40-degree thermometers and sputum litter around. This makes me feel worse. Ungrateful *****. Little Miss Drama Queen. A million would **** to be in your shoes.

I’m in a limbo – my brain encased in a cloud of humdrum trepidation. Filled to the brim with silent thumps of dread. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s not as if I did not try to do better to feel better. I do – I always do. My lists abound. #SelfCare’s always on top. Thump. Thump. Thump. They do little to quell my panic room of a mind.

Sometimes I wonder if this is how watercolor pigments feel. They are always so vivacious off of the manufacturing press. The reds are constantly vibrant and the blues are consistently resonant. But they fade when water comes into contact – even meshing into an ugly grey on the canvas when they touch the other diluted hues.

I’m in a limbo – no sense of past, present, and future. Everyday is a low frequency static hissing at my ears. Wonder child soddened by the somber. I’d build a rocket, they say. I’d own the world, they say.

All I am is tired nowadays.

was she never enough

that you chose to place
all ounce of your love
unto the shields of
anonymity

was she never enough

that you chose to watch her
break into fragments
while you solely watched
from
afar

was she never enough

that you dared not to take
the fall -
that you dared not
to swim in her pool of
despair; her ocean
of a being

was she never enough

or was she

enough

*not.

One. Look at and not through her; lock your gaze unto hers. Swim in her core through her lenses, and set her soul on fire, then.

Two. Know and say her name. Run each letter through your lips. Savor each syllable that slithers through your knowing. Grab her hand and shake it, too.

Three. Ask for and call her number. Let each digit seep in through your memory. 0906. 7. 1. Text her, maybe, occasionally.

Four. Take her out for dinner. Maybe for lunch. Maybe for whatever. Solely just to know her better. Hold her hand. Lean in tight. Plaster your gaze each time you take a bite. Breathe. Let her breathe, and take her in your arms.

Five. Kiss her. Slowly, then softly. Devour her inner demons; taste the bile in her soul. Cover her in glitter - in candy canes, and not in anything bitter.

Six. Pull away, and let her start the chase. Call her once, then not again. Say it's love, and never again.

Seven. Let her wither away. Like an autumn leaf as winter springs. Let her soul be feeble glass; your apathy, it's undoing.

E. I. Eight. This is how you break her. this is how you **** each ounce of her; his is how she falters. Nine slits on her wrists. Ten failed attempts. Eleven in the evening. Twelve roses on her coffin. Thirteen guesses for the culprit. Fourteen times, all wrong. Fifteen was right, and XV was you.

I love you all,
the whole of you, but
a part I do more than the rest.
‘Twas your feet,
dear, find it odd,
but they stand out from the
rest.

Calloused and cracked may
they may seem,
they’re beautiful to me.
They peddled you for us to meet;
*they brought you close to me.

Sleeping shuts the lights;
sleeping shuts the night.
Sleeping's when the all of me
suddenly takes
flight.

But dear, you came
and then and there
I wish to be
awake.

Your eyes, to trace;
your lips,
to take -
to always see
your face.

Younger than tomorrow;
older than today -
still having yet
to see tomorrow's ray.

A timeworn second,
a minute too new.
My bones aged, it's true;
*but my heart never would.

They say all ounce,
all speck,
of cell would be renewed
in seven years.

That all of me
shall fade away,
away,
seven years
from here.

How comforting to
know one day
that there shall be no
part of me,
part of me that you have once
laid your hands
on and kissed

- my heart,
   left for my own
   taking;
   my body,
   *void
   of clues of you.

Hello.
I’m writing to tell you that I wouldn’t write for you.

I’m stitching letters unto
letters
to form words that would
never
replicate your name.
Papers, unblemished;
ink,
unused
to weave something
reminiscent of
you.

Hello.
I’m writing a poem.

To you and never
for you.

For I write for those
who piece
my heart –

you never did;
*you never took it  
from me.

I loved too much
who has yet to love me.

I loved too little
the one that always did.

And I do not know
what aches more -
that I have fragments
for a heart
or that I broke
another soul?