Have you ever longed for a stranger?
Do you find yourself zoning out, looking forward to remembering their mannerisms and quirks?
Writing of memories from a time yet to come—it's both hopeless and hopeful at the same time.
To get excited about something or someone coming from a time and place of uncertainty, that should make me feel something else aside from excitement itself.
Fear? I fear not. It's all anticipation running around my haywire of a head.
When you see me or when I see you for the first time,
What will you be wearing? In what color?
Would I be sad and sober? Or would I be happy-drunk?
As embarassing as it would be, we know we'll have to talk to each other, exchange a few words or we could say things enough for both of us to fall in love with each other right then and there.
Would I passively tell you how I hate that week or would I start to tell you about my contradicting dreams of setting out a life of restless travels
and living in a quaint little apartment that sees a good amount of morning light and how it's going to be filled with wilted flowers, antiques and fifteen cats?
I know I would want both although it's careless and contradicting. But this is just one and I have a house full of them.
Do you even think dreams have to be logical?
Do you believe that we have to be careful in order to get to our dreams or do we go the exact opposite way?
I hope you'd share some of your dreams, too. The more careless, the better.
Would my heart still be beaten up to a pulp by then or would it beat foolishly once more like a brand new snare?
How about you? I wonder how your heart would sound, even now.
Is it punk rock one minute and classical the next or perhaps Disney when you're spacing out?
And I can only wish you're not even half of the lunatic that I am, because I know I need a bit of a balance in my life right now but hey, whatever and whoever you are, come as you are anyway. It's just a wishful thought.
Would I even get lucky enough to come inside your room to dance and spill my last ounces of colors in every corner?
To splatter your walls with my poorly-written poems would be another careless dream to add up on my long list.
Would we like the same music? Would you like drunk dancing as much as I do? Would you prefer watching the moonlight or basking in the setting of the sun? Would you fancy my humor? Would we romanticize escaping reality and the city because we know it imprisons us like nothing and nowhere else? Would I hesitate or anticipate seeing you for the second time? Would you anticipate seeing me over and over again even after seeing me cry because I'm too drunk or too sad or too happy or everything at once? Would we surf with the currents or confine to the safety of the shore?
Or do we stay friends?
Or do we stay friends for only a night?
Or do we become strangers, just strangers?
Or do we become strangers again after being fiercely in love with each other for so long, after being there for each other through the sunny days and storms, after being friends, after we were strangers?
If you see me for the first time, I hope my made-up face and my ever unruly, hand-combed crazy hair would make up for my much crazier mind, to say the least.

But may we hurry up a little if we can, answer these careless questions before they pile up.

Nakaukit na ang ngalan mo sa akin.
Ito ang katotohanan na alam ko.
Tila ba paulit-ulit nang ipinipilit ng panahon
na tayo'y pag-lapitin, na pag-lapatin pang muli ang ating mga palad. Ang ating mga labi.
Ngunit sa pagkakataong ito, nagpapanggap at nagsusumiksik ang panahon sa likod ng aking katawan at pagkatao.
Matagal nang kumawala ang tunay,
tangay nito ang ating awit at binitawang
mga sambit.
Hinalughog kong muli ang bawat tula mula sa pagkakawala ng mga ito sa lawak ng tagpuan ng makisig na buwan at payak na lupa.
Pilit kong isinaboy ang nakakapuwing na buhangin upang balutin nito ang mga bituin.
Upang mapadali ang sa kanila'y pag-dakip at sa mga pangamba mo'y aking itinakip.
Sinubukan kong gawing sigwa ang natitirang patak ng tuyot nang lawa.
Isang kasalanang pagbabayaran ng ilan mo pa kayang lihim na pagluha?
Sa dampi ng ginaw, isang ihip lang iyan, at hinding hindi na tayo muling magugunaw.
Ibinulong sa mga alitaptap na kung mabibigo at masusugatan man sa isa pang himagsik,
hindi alintana kung ang gantimpala ay
isa pang halik sa labi **** nilikha para sa akin, oo, ito'y para sa akin
ngunit mananatili ka namang naglilibot.
Kahit isa pang himagsik.

At isinumpa ko ang panahon. Ang relihiyon.
Hindi mo ba alam na ang pagmamahal ko sa'yo ang aking relihiyon?
Tawag ko ang ngalan mo hanggang sa pagbubukang-liwayway.
Dinarasal sa tuwina ang pamamalagi na lang sana ng iyong ngiti.
Niluhuran ang nagniningas na lahar,
nakayapak na nagtungo sa paanan ng iyong pagkabahala. Ito ang aking altar.
Patuloy ka pa rin namang maglalakbay.
Lingid sa iyong kaalaman na hinamon ko na ang araw sa gitna ng tag-ulan;
"Husgahan mo na ako. At kung mananatiling magmamahal itong puso,
maka-ilang ulit mang apak-apakan at kaladkarin, sa bawat araw man ay magalusan at mag-langib, habangbuhay mo pa akong sunugin at ito'y malugod kong titiisin! Sa araw na ang aking katawan ay masasawi, hanapin mo ako sa anyo at kulay ng mga puno at damo at siyang parusahan din."
Ngunit itong pag-ibig ay tila ba nagmimilagro o ito ang milagro mismo.
Araw na mismo ang tumanggi, pinasinayaan pa ng mga agila at payo ng mga talampas.
Anito'y mauubos raw ang sansinukob sa ugnayang ito. Natatawa kong tugon; "iyon nga ang aking punto!"
At ito ang naging kapanganakan ng kawalan ng ginaw dito sa piling ko.
Pinarusahan pa akong muli na mananatili kang maglalakbay, maglilibot, malayo sa aking tabi.
Na patuloy **** hahanapin ang lamig ng hatinggabi.
Kahit halinghing lang sana ng iyong tinig,
malaman ko man lang na tayo'y tumatanaw sa iisang langit.
Manatili ka lang na nakatungtong sa sansinukob na minsan ko na ring isinumpa.
Manatili ka lang na naglalakbay at naglalakad sa kulay ng damo na minsan ko nang inalay sa saliw ng pagkabalisa.
Manatili ka lang, giliw...
kahit hindi na sa aking bisig.

Sa hagupit, sa kamalasan na lamang ako makikipaghimagsik.
Hindi na magmamakaawa ngunit hindi pa rin magsasawa.
Tatanawin ka sa kabila ng ginaw,
ngunit ang awit ng pag-ibig para sayo'y hindi na malulusaw kahit sa tag-araw.
Ang tagtuyot ay pababayaan na lang o hihintayin kahit ang pag-ambon, hindi na ipagdarasal ang sa atin ay isa pang unos.
Mga buhangin ay isasauli na sa dalampasigan, upang sa pagbalik ng tag-init, mga halakhak natin ay mananatiling nakakabingi.
Sa iyong mata'y manatili sana ang mga bituin.
Marahil hihinto na rin sa paghahalughog ng nawawalang mga tula at prosa,
lilikha na lamang ng mga hungkag na pangungusap na tila ba pang-hele sa
sarili sa mga gabing nasasabik pa sanang basahin ang pagpapatuloy ng ating nakabitin na akda.
Ang iyong mga awit, ang iyong pag-awit... ipinagdarasal na aking mapagtagumpayan ang pagpapanggap na hindi na ito kailanman balak pang marinig.
Ang ika'y makadaupang-palad, ang sayo'y makipagpalitan ng maiinit na halik...
ay, para lamang dito'y lilikha na naman ba ng isa pang tula?
Panahon, isumpa mo ako pabalik.
Susukuan na ang pagpilit sa iyo.
Wag ka lang sukuan ng pag-asa na sa iyong nais at tunay na matungtungan ay pihitin ka pa-usbong. Ako na lamang sana ang gantihan ng panahon.
Ang katotohanan na sa kasaysayan at mga katha ay hindi na maaalis; kailanman, anuman at saan man...
nakaukit na ang ngalan mo sa akin.

Sometimes,
I can't help but sit, sigh and stare at nowhere
and wish, wonder and probably wait
for a different meeting
for a different time
for a different place.
our hearts less heavier,
our houses a little bit nearer
our smiles much more brighter,
the worries are somewhere farther.

But most of the time lately,
I wish I can just ******* forget you.

until the next life or the after.

I believe I've written of the sun, sand and sea countless of times;
even when it's pouring down and even when the cold december wind is tugging at the strings of my heart.
The last time I wrote of my summer,
I told myself that the next time I would, it would be from experience and not of make-believe.
Why should I write of the seagulls' noises when all I ever heard this year were the familiar chirps of the Maya birds?
I just trick myself into thinking that the chirps of a Maya is much more relaxing anyway.
Why should I write of the heat that burns past through my skin then onto my heart when I get to feel the same heat while walking the streets to and from our old house?
I could achieve my dream tan by doing that twenty times a day.
Why should I make poems out of the waves and shells when life here in the city is enough to drown me lifeless but could also leave me so dry at the same time?
Even more ironically, I never went out of my room—my safe shell that I never actually felt safe in.
April and May, farewell and apologies.
I took you for granted and now I must wait another weary, barren year and daydream for my summer.

It is 1985. I wake up from an afternoon nap, about to get ready for another night-out.
You see, I'm a typical distressed teenager just trying to make it out alive through music and art.
I take a shower while The Cure is blasting along the trickles of water.
I take my rollers, hairspray and flashy eyeshadows, glamming up for a night packed with new wave music, dancing with other teenagers who share my sentiment.
A night free of alcohol or any narcotics; the loud, booming music is enough to give me that high.
Oh, take me back to the era fit for my old soul.

Summer come, but already
her heart is dropping temperature
yet again,
already her hair is blasting across your shoulders down to your arms, your hesitation and your unhinged desperation of her heat.
Her bones scattered all over your
almost-said words and in the crevices of your proud, unfazed deceit.
The fine threads of her sanity tangles and knots up in every nooks, crannies and cul-de-sacs inside you.
In your bedcover, your clothes,
the chair.
She is drifting away.

Before we know it, it will be another year.
A crisp, brand new air, an integration
of the piercing cold and blazing warmth.
Feel that tinge of satisfaction left by the aftermath of the rain and sun's
constant tug-of-war.
By then, my hair will be longer.
The bags under my eyes could become puffier or I could do something about them over the next summer, who knows.
But April and May can be deceiving.
They can make girls like me do things
normal girls only does in November.
I might crack a fortune cookie
or smash my head onto a crystal ball.
Just trying my luck. Or lack thereof.
That's if I decide that I no longer fancy
dancing to the sound of raindrops in July.
Hopefully I will grow taller, like your girls.
You've always adored my complexion
and I've always wanted it to be
a little darker; like that of light cinnamon.
By then, I wouldn't have to blink twice
when you tell me that you miss gazing into my eyes, the same way you yearn the feeling you felt when staring at the moon when you were a child.
Or I wouldn't have to force a smile out of my weary lips when you try to tell me how you're in love with me, with your lips falling into a grim line right after.
My eyes will be unfaltering, unchallenged.
My ribs will become protruded, I know.
The bags under my eyes, more pronounced.
I will probably become skinnier, and I might not really do something about it over the next and summers and more.
As this passing September air is a quick breath and a stained glass window to the ensuing months and switching seasons,
until it kisses the back of the hands of departing August, pull it closer to the end,
I will no longer have to wonder.
I write about September in hopes that
when I meet you in the eye,
I will be what you were wishing for.
But I'm afraid how my monsters are slowly becoming scarier each day.
Scarier for you to look in the eyes.
Scarier for you to dance with, even.
Next september, everything will be sweeter.
I am helplessly lusting over the mystery that
lies between all these tears
and couple more months of misery.
Next september, I'll be prettier.
I'll be stronger, smarter and braver.
And we'll be full of memories or regrets, more poems or everything all at once.
We'll be everywhere or nowhere to be found. Maybe they'd find us in one of the clouds or in a full theater without sounds.
By then, I hope I'm still not dead.
I hope our love is still burning bright red.