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EL Borromeo Jun 2020
we drink summer in paper cups
and let the warmth reach
the core of our bones
we try to sit still as we hope
for sunny skies to stay afloat

but there are brewing storms
some carrying lovers’ drifting odes
some harbouring none but fleeting cold

let the warmth remain
dandelion days will come again
for seasons may unceasingly change
but love, there’s a Love
that doesn’t ever fade
EL Borromeo Jun 2020
lodging in homes
as impermanent as dreams:
sometimes, i live
in the crevices
of the stones in your garden,
sometimes, in the cold skin
of your room’s window sills.

i am a dust
longing to rest
in the tiny corner of your bed,
just beneath
your favorite pillow —
like how my fellow
dusts sleep comfortably
in the flower *** on your floor
under the guise of a soil.

i am a dust
learning to navigate through
the intricacy of our lives:
we are
nowhere and everywhere
at the same time;
we are
dull yet we glisten
under the right circumstances:

when the hour is golden
when the dreamers are awake
when the sun showers all —
dusts and humans alike —
with its most delicate light.
EL Borromeo Jun 2020
fly her to far-off skies —
miles and miles
away from piercing storms and tears;
send her to a new place,
embraced in a safe space
away from the pain that wildly sears;
lull her to sleep
and wipe away her silent weeps;
let the weariness disappear —
dispel, dispel all unnecessary fears.
EL Borromeo Jun 2020
under the unseen
wastes floating
alongside the clouds,
i’ve peered
at the blurring memories
of times bygone

the waves
that used to waltz gracefully
are now as loose
as the sands in the shore
where they used to land.
when they ebb
into their horizons
once a month,
the daisies planted
on the ocean floor are revealed:
wilting, patiently,
beside the rusting metals
of sunken ships and people

those who reign over
the cities are still
trading air and tanks
with gold;
the cosmonauts that remained
are left with no choice
but to dig
and try to survive  

they say small towns
are now vanquished,
but when you look
intently beyond
the forlorn and barbed wires,
traces of life can be seen —
on half-bare trees and
on blood-painted gutters.

in where we reside,
footsteps and words
are almost nowhere
to be heard.
we walk lightly as how
we breathe quietly.
if you get to visit our place,
squint your eyes
and gaze beyond
our tinted masks —
i pray
that you’ll somehow see
how we’re still
what we used to be:

living creatures,
only trapped
in strange times.
EL Borromeo Jun 2020
carve your words on winds
and let the fleeting air
caress the wounds
you courageously cut open;
let them bleed again
and let the fresh scent
send the birds to singing;
forget about the inked papers —
no one reads anymore
and the world forgets anyway

— The End —