Rain was pouring hard
when my cheap fastfood coffee was full,
my cold sweat does the same
as soon as I finished the cup.
Bringing an umbrella in Dapitan
is not necessary.
At least that's what I said
before I was all soaked and in dread.

Here in this castle,
in my tower,
no one and nothing
can hurt me but myself.
Walls are built out of silver and gold
that I begged the laws of the universe for.
I might be the princess that sleeps,
but will never feel the pea
that lies underneath my piles of bed
made out of skeleton bones.
Now yes, I lie on them...
they reside not in my closet
but beneath my frail, sorry body.
Some nights, I am one of the skeletons myself.
I might be the very monster
that I have been fearing for the past two weeks.
I might be making the very noises
that keeps me up until morn.
Have you ever seen a fortress
with the enemies lurking within?
Gates with the robbers
who are playing cards inside?
Welcome to my little world,
welcome to my tower.
Where I can craft deadly words,
in here I hold the most power.

As I breathe the taint Manila air in,
I knew I was about to fall in love again.
Oh how I craved for the smoke belching out of the jeepneys,
how badly did I want that signature smog to have me begging for fresh, precious air?

Ah, nothing would beat the musky, filthy smell from the streets and the constant fear of being pickpocketed that no feeling in the world would ever compare. The last time I felt my heart beat like a wild beast was when I was walking alone down Raon to fetch my first few vinyl records.

Commuting is a breeze. Except that breeze is in the apple of the eye of the storm that I would gladly, willingly look straight into. Quiapo is but an irony; the only place in the world where you would feel safe and protected by the church and the very same place you would feel fear of being mugged or robbed or both.

But the food, dear God, is incomparable. The blood enemy of my melancholy. I find peace in Binondo, a haven that makes me forget all the political dysporia going on with our good old neighbor and ***** lover, China. Let's take a breather and bask on our shared heritage and cuisine instead, shall we?

Manila. Her chaos, her charm,
her history and the dreams she holds for me...
these are what I will always come back here and battle death for.

You left me in this scene of the crime,
in the mouth of your enemy;
but unbeknownst to you
is an undefeated one.
Undead like yesterday's song.
You found me on one fateful night
from your days of valor and prime,
blew sonnets on my wounds out of charity; the terror's nowhere to be found, it is gone.
The enemy is *******, his legs are helpless.
Now he's gnawing on my flesh,
this dainty darling rose could care less.
He's determined to cut my petals,
slice them each by thirty-fours,
out of the petals he shall denounce
the rebirth of a new rose, grow it fresh.
I am a rare rose,
but the dying kind,
so they say.
Now they are determined to find you.
Force me to speak the way they do,
I would never sing and betray you.
So run, run into the dark of the night
as I bleed and wilt into this
one chaos of a delightful plight.

But with him,
I can be the woman I wish I were,
the lover I doubt I could ever be
and the writer I wish I could take a pill to become
so after him,
after this romance,
    after he's gone,
        what do I become?

It was 3 A.M. in the heart of the metro,
although by the crossroads of Katipunan,
Aurora Blvd and CP Garcia,
the music of time seems to sigh to a stop.
And there by the corner, an orchestra.
Our hearts, on the other hand,
were out in the open
but the cold weather got the best of us.
Our sleepy eyes were giving us away.
You had to pull me closer
and I had to warm up your hands.
Have I told you before?
You have the hands that could unsettle
but your eyes tells a whole different story.
A tale I was too terrified to start reading, perhaps.
But a favorite of mine it has become in time.
Moments with you are as raw and surreal
as moments can be;
they were just once imaginations and inspirations for
those bad poems I used to write years ago.
Not that my poems now are good but the ideas I can now grasp,
they're inside my realm, within my reach.
Your far-fetched dreams are statement patches
on my denim jacket while my craziest of hopes
are tucked safely inside every pocket of your dad's
hand-me-down vintage jeans.
"He got this from Vietnam in the 80's",
you uttered between a puff of smoke
and before I could start talking about the war yet again,
just like in the movies,
you started asking me about my dad, his whereabouts,
'just anything' about him;
something a lover has never done before,
something a friend wouldn't even bother hearing about.
You were waiting intently yet so patiently
for my response as you threw away the **** of your cigarette.
Right then and there,
I swear I was in rock bottom in love with you.
Should I reach for your lips first then proceed to tell you?
Or should I tell you first and then stop to stare at your lips longingly before finally reaching
out to kiss you, like in the movies, too?
For the very first time, I was in rendezvous with the story
and the abiding pain that comes with its telling.
I almost liked the melancholy lying in its very idea.
I was at peace talking about it,
almost as if it wasn't my own story to tell.
You made everything so easy, like throwing up acid
after about twelve celebratory shots of Stolichnaya.
You listened, you didn't just hear me out but you listened
like no one did before
and right then and there,
I swear I could give you the world.
And I started doing so by giving you the bricks
from the ruins of the walls around my heart.
The same bricks that I shattered
and played my own heart with.
I even had the faint chance to understand myself,
but not as much as you did.
I saw some things I've never seen before
but not as clearly as you did.
I stopped mid-sentence, first to catch my breath,
second to recollect myself
and I wasn't very sure about the third
if I wanted to break down
or if I wanted to reach for your lips,
finally pull you in for a kiss but to hell, you knew
what I needed better.
You took my hand, kissed it tenderly before pulling me in.
You let my head rest on your lap like I would have with my dad, should he stayed.
And I told myself "there's no turning back".
You found me by the crossroads
and you made me tiptoe happily through
the speeding vehicles that once killed me
and destroyed parts of me that I could never take back
but I would do it all over again.
I would live only to die again.
For half the time, you were waiting for me on the
other side of the road but for the latter,
you impatiently crossed the other half of the road
to meet me in the middle,
so we could cross back to safety together.
I could double whatever price I had to pay
when I saw your face getting closer
and when you finally touched me,
I was willing to embrace the glory of bankruptcy.
Right then and there I swear I could do everything for you
and I started doing so by forcing my heart
with all its might to try beating once more
and it did, to my surprise, the loudest it ever has.
I didn't have to hold the shards for too long
with my already bleeding and wary hands
because you held them with me.
You held me.
And just like that, I am whole again.
We were singing along to Strawberry Fields Forever,
exchanging soft, contented sighs while wishing
Walrus didn't have to close so soon as 2 A.M.

Climbing a mountain on a rainy day
inspires you to embrace
the light showers that comes your way,
and humbles you down enough
to appreciate walking in the city streets
on a regular sunny day