"Love waits, lust rushes",
some idiot on Instagram preaches.
Or Idstagram, if you will.
I call him one, but it's the truth
he brews, spews and spill.
He's an idiot for he fell in love indeed.
"Find your missing rib, not another *****",
another proclaimsㅡa poet this time around.
That would be me, only if you want.
I meant the idiot poet or your missing rib.
You can call me a fool, for it's the truth
I keep, speak and ****.
A friend who lies or a lover who stays still.
I could be both, if you wish.
Choice is not mine, not this time.

How social is a "social" dance exactly?
Depending on one's culture, does it vary?
How "intimate" do you consider intimacy?
Depending on which parts of your body?
How would you define what's touchy?
Depending on where you want it, maybe?
But when do friends dance, exactly?
Is it every after midnight, when they're free?
Or when all eyes gaze, at afternoon at three?
And where do friends dance, precisely?
Is it at the supermarket, with so much glee?
Or when they're uninhibited, at some party?
So how do friends dance, really?
Would you be so kind as to teach me?
Would you be graceful enough to guide me?
Would you step first and lead me?
Would you stop last to kiss me?

Where could it be?
Where is this taking me?
My hopes are anything but high.
My ink for poetry is running dry.
Where is my one horse running off to?
Where exactly is the end of the rainbow?
I keep searching and screaming for it.
I keep yearning and yelling for this.
Still, it could be me and you.
Still, despite the shades of blue.
The last nugget of gold that I will rush to.
The last star that's burning in the metro.
This city ain't big enough for both of us,
but your room might just be.
There ain't room for both of us in this town,
but in my bed there might just be.

But do you know that all of these takes time?
That you simply can't just wake up good?
That this is one thing you can't do online?
That this is more than wearing boots?
But do you know how much time is mine?
That you might wanna share perhaps?
But do you know how long must I ride?
Before you enter the arena and do laps?
But do you know that all of these takes time?
That even the greatest cowboy can fall?
That if you think it could be anywhere,
could it possibly be on my bed or hall?
Do you know that it takes hell of a practice?
But then if it's the art of cantering,
my body is but one masterpiece,
you are a renaissance artist.
But if a horse is poetry in motion,
your legs writes classic novels
I don't wish to ever end.
And if this little tryst is all but a play,
then we better make it worthwhile
do it best more than a playwright.

The more I ride, the more he fades away
and the more he blurs when it's a rainy day.
The more I trot, the less he catches on
and the lesser he gets my prized attention.
Because the more we run on the field,
the more I breathe, live and feel.
Because the more we canter out and about,
the less I feel the worries, fears and doubts.
But you are the vast lands that I will uphold,
you are the range of mountains with golds.
You are the trail that the champions follow,
you are where families will bloom and grow.
You are my Olympus and achilles' heel,
he's just the dirt on my boots.
You are my final will and death hill,
he's just another old saloon.

Ang wikang nanlaban,
ay ang wikang nanatili.
Ang wikang di nag-atubili,
ay ang wikang nagwagi.
Ang wika ng mga matatapang,
ay ang wikang di maaagawan.
Ang wikang awitin ng araw
at ang wikang tula ng buwan.
Ang wikang harana ng habagat
at ang wikang isinulat ng dagat.
Ang wikang ibinaybay ng alon
at ang wikang di aanurin ng baybay.
Ang wikang sinambit ng mga ninuno
na kailanman ay di mamamatay.
Ang wikang ginamit ng mga bayani
na habambuhay nang mamamalagi.
Ang wikang matapang,
ang wika ko magpasawalang-hanggan.

If the green waves in Siargao
and the blue swells in La Union
could meet somewhere and speak,
what would they talk about?
In what language, even?
Ilocano? Bisaya? Tagalog? Español?
Or perhaps the better question is;
what would they 𝘯𝘰𝘵 talk about?
If the waters of Siargao could introduce itself
to the northwest wind of La Union,
I think,
they would create waves more gigantic
than Bondi or Nazare.
And if the eastern Pacific wind of Siargao
kiss the West Philippine Sea beside La Union,
I believe,
they would cause tsunami bigger than Japan's.
The waves would be bigger than anywhere else,
together they would be the best.
Or they could be the worst.
And so God willed La Union in the northwest,
and Siargao further down south in Mindanao.
And so they could not speak, meet and kiss...