This is a sweet poem of relinquished gratitude

For a man who has done nothing but dig a hole that goes through the core

Like a worn-out book binded by threads of thirst that doesn't wish to be quenched,

A daughter who can only whisper prayers of solitude for a man who traded a jade for his *****.

Now that jade he's turned his back away from is not so precious anymore.

Rather a daisy all rotten, vines growing around the cage with which despair has clenched.

For an instance, we would meet and exchange passive glances
on the metro station for the very first time,
we're going to be looking at the same advertisement or propaganda poster,
knowing of each other's presence
but never acknowledging...
then we would ride the same train.
Perhaps we're holding on to the same railing but our fingers are never touching.
How I wish that was a busy monday morning instead of an easygoing
sunday evening,
so then I would've been smashed against you the moment I stepped foot in the train
or should've felt your body heat around me
at the very least.
Just like in the movies.

For an instance,
we would see each other for the first time
in a lazy corner coffee shop,
there are going to be about fourteen to twenty-seven people in.
There's you, me, the baristas, the harmony of your voice among the chatters of others.
Sadly, you were sitting with your back turned from me and fairly enoughㅡI am too, because we both hate looking at people's faces or being looked at while sipping our coffee.
Or maybe I'll choose one of the high stools for the time being, forgetting the fact that my back would hurt after half an hour.
I'll pretend to be productive while you're in one of those couches, and God knows what you're trying to pretend about?
That you didn't notice me as I walked by?
When you know so well that your whole atmosphere and realm just shifted for good?
Oh, this is why I like you in the first place,
you're a bit funny, too.

But what if we'd first talk on a record store?
You're rummaging through alternative rock while I slowly feel the new wave record sleeves run through my already dusty fingers, slightly tapping them too with the beat of the store's background music.
Not knowing of each other's presence,
I'll turn to the isle and see you there.
You check me out, you're preoccupied but you still paid me a glance,
before giving me a faint, subtle smile.
I'll smile back at you sweetly and my heart will then have to faint a bit, too.
Or we might both be looking for the exact same album, how idealistic.
But unlike the movies, we'll talk about it instead of fighting over who saw it first.
And who should get to bring it home.
We would both be surprised of each other's preference in music, possibly amazed.
Or perhaps a little in love already,
one foot down in the grave.
Either way, I would know right away we would touch and create melodies, just like needle to record grooves.

It could be on a mountain trail,
a near-death experience, on a hospital, on a beach or in the middle of the ocean,
a museum, my birthday, the airport, EDSA, your grandpa's death anniversary;
any location and any scenario,
there would be no better place
and no better moment.
Because the very moment and time
we would meet for the very first time
Would be the best way right away.
However.
Wherever.
Whenever?
No I wish, pray and beg it to be sooner.

Five summers, four lovers
and three checkbooks ago,
I've been here, as I am today.
Same corner, same shade of gloomy day,
and about the same volume of falling rain,
still a one-call-away favorite friend of pain.
Only now I am much more
clever and conniving,
more calculating
and dare I say,
more frightening.
My approaching steps are the pitter-patter
of the storm starting,
the thundering warning of my arrival
is Manila's hour rushing.
Words from my lips
are news you'd rather miss,
however I can't say the same
about my infamous kiss.
I am older, and longer are my to-do lists.
My patience is longer,
but my heart no longer sighs or beats.

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.

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.

How sweet it is to relive the years of young over and over!

How lovely it is to recall the good old days and remember!

The candies, the soft songs, the bliss of innocence, the tinge of rainbow at every sight!
Oh, bring me back to my childhood!

…but this is their story.

my childhood had been what life is to me all along and now;

Everything and everyone comes and then goes.

There are but few things that haven't changed from when I was four;

the longing I can never outgrow.

the house I can never really call home.

the constant nightmares, cries and screams.

nothing a child would ever imagine nor dream.

The scars, the beaten-down rhymes, the blame beneath the chastise, the fading of every color from the light.
Oh, I am finally kissing my childhood goodbye!

*...and this is mine.

Tonight I'm...
Wearing my mom's red lipstick,
Getting all tangled up in cords
Thinking about how...
Your lover can turn you into magic
While I can only turn you into words
Thought together we...*
Could be more than just electric.
But did you know when we met, the angels all sang in accord?

Half a year has passed
Love has been recalled
and lives have been lost
Hearts have been split in halves
Lessons learned, wages earned
More questions left unanswered
Am I getting older
or just getting used to it?
Am I growing wiser
or just getting my old self back?
But all the love I think I gave to people,
out to the bigger world,
I need a little bit of that back for myself.
Even just for a little while.
I need some kind of balance
or even an illusion thereof.
Am I becoming stronger
or getting more careless?
Am I getting smarter
or just getting sheer luck?
Yet all the lessons I thought I learned
from all the people I gave my love to,
I think I didn't really need them.
All I needed was to do it myself.
Like I always do.
Is the earth getting warmer
or is my skin growing thicker?
Are my dreams becoming closer
or I just couldn't care less any longer?
More questions will be asked
and will be left unanswered.

Nalalayuan kaya ang mga ibon tuwing tinatanaw
ang malawak na hinagap ng kaparangan?
Nasisilaw pa rin kaya sila sa bukang liwayway
kahit mula pagkamulat ay iyon ang kinagisnan?
Nasasaktan pa rin kaya sila sa ganda ng paglubog ng araw
at ang angking kawalang pagkakatulad ng bawat isa?
Natatakot pa rin kaya sila sa halik ng dilim
kahit ang gabi ay nangangakong magdala ng lamikmik?
Kay rami ko pang nais itanong sa mga ibon,
kay bigat ng patong sa munti nilang mga pakpak.
Paano magtatanong ang isang hamak na bulaklak
sa kagitingan ng mataas at malayang agila?
Kay rami ko pang balak ibulong sa mga maya,
kung may pangarap man sila, ihahalik ko sa hiraya.
Ngunit anong magagawa ng isang payak na talulot
sa ilalim ng langit at sa ibabaw ng gumuguhong mundo?

From your Roman Empire,
to my Ancient Egypt...
from your eyes and their cool fire,
to the curses falling down my lips

Up from your northern skies,
out of my vast desert's hottest sand
In from your colosseum's light,
down to my catacombs' earth and land

Their cowardly call for battles and war
is our romance's answer to serenity
They only dare to fight us from afar,
my name haunts them for all eternity

Let them come if they wish and dare
As we inspire the world's greatest love stories
I'll let my kingdom come, all rich and bare
But they will never go down in history

They are the drops of rain in an island
as you ride through a storm on a motorbike.
The coconuts falling down your head
on a quiet beach.
They are the songs and poems
addressed to or meant to attack politicians.
They are slippery rocks on a river
and the current of a whirlpool
for the heavy steps
of the enemies.
And they are the soft cashmere carpet
and the fine, powdery sands
for the careful steps
of my lovers.

I write of love yet I don't believe in it anymore,
yet I still dream of love as it soothes me terrified.
I would give love if I could, but I have nothing more,
yet I still try to find it and scream it in songs at night.

I dream of love yet I fancy turning it into a nightmare,
yet men keep sleeping down their backs,
anticipating for even just a passing vision of me.
I write of love only to spin it into a cautionary tale,
yet they're awake deep into the night,
and I'm a book they're flipping, turning, eagerly reading.

I write of love, praise it yet I've already lost my faith,
yet I still pray for love as if it's my last salvation
I know now that love is all but a promise and bait,
yet I keep being hooked, like a tiny fish in the vast ocean.

I sing of love, write of it, dance for it,
yet at the end of the day, it's all but a dying art,
yet I'm an artist starving to make it to the other side,
even make it out alive
I have learned now that love,
with all its theories and truths, only breaks my heart,
but you're a new canvas I want to spill
all my letters, colors and lights.

Do not listen to the preachers.
Do not listen to the non-believers either.
Here's a piece of advice from a revolutionary,
a soldier and a slave for love;
Don't say you're in love,
unless you want to wage a war against every doubt, every dread on your lover's racing and raging heart,
wielding your sword against their anxiety,
never minding your own worries,
unless you are in dire passion with changing the course of their history,
spilling your blood or covering it with art,
forgetting about your own sob stories,
unless you aren't having sleepless nights from planning for strategies and fine-tuning your tactics so you can put your best foot forward and your Achilles heel before them,
unless you aren't willing
to die for their peace,
unless you aren't willing
to live to see their freedom,
don't proclaim yourself
to be someone who's in love.
If you're enthusiastic for the worst,
When words doesn't make sense anymore,
come and be my land forevermore.

There was once a haunted tree,
not feared by many, in fact,
only by that of a young spinster.
But of five and twenty,
liked by many, however,
only a few were ever called her lover.

Until she met a man that felt like an army,
like hundreds of men marching,
whose loyalty was sworn for her beauty.
Until one man felt like a war waging,
yet like a calm ocean breeze blowing
and like marching silently into the dark sea.

Until there came the lover whose laughter
felt like an ache from a life long gone,
whose smiles felt like gunshots.
Until there was he who felt like home,
yet as distant as the tides are to the moon
and as untouchable as a silky thunderbolt.

There was a tree the spinster holds dear,
so close to her ever yearning heart.
This tree, she likens to that of her lover.
whose branches threatens to fall on her,
bears fruits that if they choose to plummet,
someone is to get hurt and it would be her.

And then there was a legend that this tree,
that was once a fruit of another host
that was fabled to be haunted.
But before the tales of horrors and shrieks,
it was abundant, it was the guide to the lost,
until it was axed, hunted as needed.

All of this tree's fruits turned to be of toxins,
opposing the townspeople's songs of praises.
All its branches grew webs upon cleaving,
challenging the tales of awes and delight.
All of which except for one, a golden fruit,
the root's promise and hope of the fallen.

What the preachers say could be of truth,
their words she avoided could be gospel.
What the non-believers say could be a tale,
their rumors could save her from demise.
What if the tree is just as rotten as the root,
what if it is indeed the produce from hell?

I'm not hoping for much
I'm not even hoping for
the good of hope anymore
But if there's a few things
I'd still hope for at all;
I hope you're being haunted
by the things we talked about,
by the jokes only we knew
and laughed about.
I hope you're being followed
by the plans you didn't want to make,
but couldn't say it out loud
I hope my jokes lingers in your head,
I hope my laughter rings in your ear
as you crash in another woman's bed,
I hope you're further away as possible
as you pull her unfamiliar body near.
I hope my hobbies are
now becoming yours,
I hope my multitude of dreams
have inspired you to maybe
finally have at least one of your own,
I hope that all these time, we have grown
whether into each other or apart,
I hope I have became your mountain and your rock,
despite never needing one,
as you have always been your own.
I hope you'll never have to wonder
how the heat of my touch feels like anymore,
I hope you'll never have to wonder
how I smell like and how you'd keep wanting more.
I hope that at night you are not alone
I really hope you are not sulking,
thinking and drinking all on your own.

A sober rockstar, not even a puff of cigarette
A man who's actually one
A cowboy making the sign of the cross before a rodeo show
A ******* singing songs of love
A murderer in an old church's confessional
A white guy in Manila who's actually here for work
A cool guy having hot flashes and constant fever
A deadbeat father writing poetry
A ped*phile making the sign of the cross out of habit
A hot guy having regular hypothermia
A politician smiling warmly
A poet
A poem
A poet and their poems.

The band is where I need to be
When I buzz and splash
and when
I roll,
My weary soul's finally set free.
The moment I undressed
for the snare,
I knew
the last thing I ever wanted
to be is sane.
My tired limb pitched in for the bass,
I got afraid
my music is bound to be
an unsolved case.


Silence...

Then here they come again.

Then I shall be beating and playing again.

Before despair takes my heart and scream "mine",

Before the flowers planted from pain rots away with time,

Before the birds faint and fall from the dark grey skies,

Before the music shuts through the angst of the chimes,

Before they tell us no, we weren't meant to be tomorrow and lie,

Before the daylight howls and before the sunset cries,

take me by the tip of your tongue and spill your sadness in me.

Take me in every corner of your room until I run out of fears to bleed.

Take me. Take me anywhere.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet
Did the past month really occur
Or I just hallucinated that we met?

Consectetur adipiscing elit
Did I regret it
Or did I wish I stayed longer for a bit?

Sed do eiusmod tempor
Did you regret it
Or are you wishing now for more?



Placeholder,
I'm just another design page,
whose lips are a passing, familiar symbol.

A replacer,
You're just another pretty face,
whose eyes I already forgot the color.

We move along and away,
Get on with our diring days



I couldn't even dare call you a lover,
we really just both filled each other.

A poem that shouldn't be. A poor attempt to express an affection so otherworldly, it will probably seem comical.

Rather offensive; my words wouldn't justify such affection.

On my own,
I would probably *****
and gallop around
like an untrained horse,
just doing whatever I please.
But with himㅡmy master, my rider,
I became a tamed, seasoned
and trained champion.
When he's on top of me,
he trots with glee,
when we jump
and into the air we flee;
I feel like I would be sold
with a worth far more than
a brand new Ferrari.
On my own, I am but a restless beast;
But when we canter together,
we grace the lands
and weather the storm,
we ride with such majesty
and with much ease and joy.

A kind of love so good,
you wanna go on a quest to read every love poem, rob them off their most poignant words and rewrite them yourself if you could.
A spark so bright,
you know you can't turn away without igniting it even more and back down without putting up a ******* fight.
A love so real,
it can make the angels mad, even deranged and drive the saints to ****.
A touch that stings,
it could make a wilted flower bloom once again and make a voiceless siren sing.
A kiss that sears,
the price you have to pay for a love this good is a mistake that you would regret for years.
But it's time I run away from the shadows of your uncertainty.
I can no longer be crippled by your feigned affection and fantasy.
I pray that you, too, can escape from the false perfection you've molded and carefully crafted inside your head.
All that is white will eventually turn red and baby there will always be a dead end,
this is ours.

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.

Just seven will never be enough, nor
seventy or even seven hundred thousand.
It's an insult for how many words I want to say, how many are the grains of sand?

Just fourteen stops before I go?
Frankly, that's quite generous.
Twelve disciples?
All I need is you.
Just ten commandments by my father?
Honestly, for you I'd write them better.
Eight days until my rebirth and our reunion?
Painstakingly, that's quite a wait.
Just three falls going to my death?
Mercilessly, make it a hundred.
Just two nails to pin me down?
Respectfully, make it a thousand.
Just one cross?
Please, I demand millions.

Just one life will never be enough, nor
ten or even a millenia to hold your hand.
It's an offense, really, because how much rain do you think can the sea withstand?

I have no time to pray
For instead I must work, cry, eat,
all these prayers, I cannot say anyway.
I have to work for the things
that I want and need
instead of praying and waiting for them,
I have to cry so I can work again for the things I really need
and silence my cries and dry my tears with the things I want then,
I have to eat so I can do it all over again
instead of praying to get warm food on my plate
or fresh sheets on my bed.
So tell me
Where do I find the time?
Where do I look for more?
Do I pray for more time too?
And if so, when do I find the time to pray
to God for more time?
If God doesn't sleep, then I am a God too.
And even if I'm restless,
I still have no time to pray.
And even if I have rest,
when does that happen anyway?
I have no time to pray, to rest
or God forbid, play. You jest.
For instead I must work, cry or eat.
When I'm on my deathbed,
probably then I'll have time to pray.

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.

I… was going to write words, and they were going to make sense, and they were going to be songs of praises about his name.
Perhaps they would’ve been words about love, or about fantasy within irony, or plainly about my feelings; raw, uninhibited, loud, bold,
because I'm having way too much of them while trying to understand him, the masterpiece.
But then I watched my sanity fly, my soul depart from my bruised body and then my heart crashing, falling down for him.

The End.


Or is it just the beginning?

9 pm in Cubao,
It was only my second bottle, but how come I can't recall whether I left the house just an hour ago?
Ah, I wanted to escape from the chaos that is the metro.
But I loathe this particular place, so why here again?
The record stores were even shut like they'll never open doors again.
That's another magical thing about vintage shops—they look hopeless except they're everything but.
But I'm half grateful, at least one less memory of this place are shut closed, too.
Though I am less woeful, knowing this is not just another equally less woeful night.
After the last bottle, I blew the city a kiss, bracing myself for the unfamiliar ride.
I've stopped counting the months in which I've been dying to see the sun rise by the beach and not by the concrete jungles of BGC.
I softly let go of all my uncertainties,
but holding onto the excitement firmly.
Oh, I can't wait much longer for the ocean breeze.

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.

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?

⁠Even if you are an enemy
who's bound to hurt me,
I would still ask you
to come sit and eat with me.
Even if you are an enemy
who's sent to capture me,
I would still ask you
to stay for a while,
share even this one meal with me.
Even if you are an enemy
who's ordered to **** me,
I would still ask you;
"Have you eaten?
Kumain ka na ba?
Ya comiste?
Ja has menjat?
Xa comeches?"
And if you say you haven't,
I'll take out the plates, but
I'll be angered.
Because look at the time!
And if you say you already did,
then I'd let you take me out,
my head lowered.
You can waste my time!
Even if you are an enemy
who's bound to hurt me...

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.

We would exchange contents of our souls,
open up my hips like you would a hole,
where you'll pour your sadness into;
and cover all over my grief,
like I'd spill my anxiety,
then glaze over your anguish.
So, we'll never have ***, I think.
We would rip each other's skin like ribs,
tear through our necks,
leave them red with bites and nibs;
or maybe it’ll be a slow night and we’ll read,
and maybe you’ll tell me I am who you need.
So we’ll never have ***, I believe.
I would tell you how sometimes slow hurts,
and sometimes,
it’s the absence of fire that burns.
I would tell you how it doesn’t make sense,
and sometimes,
what makes it present is the absence itself.
So we’ll never have ***, I bet.
Maybe you could tell me about these instead;
how you don’t know when it happened.
or if you could, tell me at what moment?
Maybe tell me that I'm always in your head;
or wishing I'm giving you one instead.
And that you don’t know how it started.
But it’s starting now isn’t?
It’s brewing now at this very moment,
or even way before.
Come closer, tell me how
you’ve been waiting for this very moment.
Whisper how you want more.
Come to me, my wave, I am your shore.

You were my own brand of summer and your love is the sunburn that will never soothe and heal.
Your kiss can pull the clouds away from the sun, keep the boats anchored down despite strong currents and bring the solstice in the middle of the monsoon.
Your view from the shore while you were testing the waters will forever be etched in the remaining islets of my heart so it will never be washed away.
The sun blazing at our final hours in the beach is a manifestation that I should wait for something I really want;
I wanted the burn and the blaze but enough is enough.
My skin, my eyes and my bones can only take in so much.
The pain comes in waves and I already forgot how to swim.
The memories are twelve feet,
I'm just about five and I can't even float.
After you left, I felt the coldness of all the final months of the year take me into their embrace all at once.
This is what winter must feel like.
It was the worst of all tortures, I only felt summer hours ago.
I was aching for your arms around me, you can't even begin to imagine.
You took that summer heat with you but I shall find it again, but not from you.
But how? Everytime I remember summer, I only remember you.
You are my summer.

I can't wait to call all these a memory—at least one I do not intend to keep.

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒂 𝒔𝒂 𝒌𝒂𝒉𝒐𝒏
𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒈𝒂 𝒌𝒂𝒉𝒐𝒏 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒑𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒌.
𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒐 𝒔𝒂 𝒊𝒍𝒐𝒈 𝒏𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒖𝒈𝒐
𝒐 𝒅𝒖𝒈𝒐 𝒔𝒂 𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒐 𝒏𝒈 𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒐.
𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒔𝒐𝒌𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒂 𝒑𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒌
𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒌 𝒔𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒐.
𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒔𝒂 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒕
𝒐 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏.
𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒐 𝒔𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒂𝒚𝒐𝒏
𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒈𝒂𝒚𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒖𝒌𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝒔𝒂 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒐.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒈𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒖𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂
𝒏𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒐 𝒔𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒐𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒑𝒖𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒊.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒉𝒂𝒍
𝒏𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒐 𝒔𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒏𝒖𝒓𝒊.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂
𝒏𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒕 𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒋𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒛𝒂.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒓𝒂
𝒏𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒐 𝒔𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒂 𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒂.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒚𝒐
𝒏𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒂.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒐
𝒏𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒚𝒂𝒌 𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒂 𝒂𝒍𝒃𝒂
𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒖𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒐 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒐𝒔.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒘 𝒔𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒔𝒊𝒌𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒘.
𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒌𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒂 𝒌𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒏.

As stale as day-old bread

Much gray as year-long dread

Lie down your own messy bed

In which you are as good as dead.

If my country is going to war, yet again...
I want to let you know that I won't kiss you.
No, at least not in vain.
For my kisses does not soothe,
rather they burn.
Like that of a tropical summer afternoon.
I won't even touch your hand.
No, at least not with mine.
For my hands does not heal,
rather they hurt.
Like they wouldn't know you are not enemy.
If my country is already at war, yet again...
I won't indulge myself to hug you.
No, at least not with this body,
a body that could possibly fail and die.
For my body is one that refuses to live,
in and for a land wherein birds cannot fly.
I won't help myself and look into your eyes.
No, at least not this time.
For my eyes are a pair that refuses to look,
at a bloodbath that I've only read in books.
So if my country goes to war, time and again...

I want to let you know, that no...

I won't kiss you in vain, for I will kiss you
until they drag my body and take me away.
Until drops of my blood are flowing in rivers,
lagoons, farmlands, grass and grains.
I will touch your hand with the promise of sweet victory.
With the news that my mountains
and seas are yours to roam free.
I won't hug you with this body,
but with my bodies of water and seas.
Until you are embraced by the wild waves,
may you taste their liberty.
I won't look at you with my bloodshot eyes,
but with the promise that you will never again
see blood, and with the eternal sunlight
over our vast fields and blue skies.

Don't worry,
in one of these days I'll be gone,
you wouldn't know where I will be,
you wouldn't know where to would I run.
But don't worry,
it will be in a place where you would like.
you wouldn't know it's in a quaint surftown,
it will be somewhere you'll also wanna hide.

No doubt,
sometime soon I'll be away,
I know you wouldn't feel the longing,
you wouldn't know the feeling of being astray.
But don't doubt,
I'll be in a place where I wanna be with you,
you wouldn't know if I'm in some place warm.
I'll be with you anywhere and you know it too.

So I'll be everywhere.
You'll find me in the air, in flowers, in breeze.
I'll be wherever there's summer, even winter.
I'll be everywhere.
You'll find me in the moon and in palm trees.

But you have to tell me these too;
"I want you gone."
"Please hide."
"Please run."
"You're not the one I like."
"Go away."
"I don't wanna be with you."

Then I'll be gone, I'll go hide.
I'll run, hide some more, and hide, and hide.

Then I'll be nowhere.
You'll find me in the fleeting January air,
I'll be wherever there's no spring, all fall.
I'll be nowhere.
You'll find me in December, or nowhere at all.

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.

Here is a list of things that are bigger,
greater than all of the world's oceans,
bigger than the storms in the seas,
than all the islands in the Pacific,
connecting all of us together,
being one great channel of culture...
Telenovela, chismes, galeones,
teleserye, chismis, galleon.
𝘚𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘓𝘢𝘱𝘶-𝘓𝘢𝘱𝘶, 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘯.
𝘌𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘯? 𝘒𝘢𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯.
Sangría? No, sangre de Magallanes.
𝘕𝘪ñ𝘰𝘴, 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘦𝘯 𝘷𝘦𝘻
𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘻𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴.
And believe it or not;
Bulerías, danza, bachata, habaneras.
How do you like your coffee, bebe?
Con leche? Bueno.
Evaporada and condensada?
Tequila, San Miguel, Mezcal, Corona,
Cerveza, Serbesa, Cerrado, Sarado.
𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘰 𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘨𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘢,
𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘰.
Actually, how do you like your coffee?
𝘛𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘧é?
𝘚𝘪 𝘯𝘰, 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘶 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘰.
So do you like it hot or con hielo?
And of course;
Canciones, c/kanta,
And nowㅡreggateon, budots.
Gasolina? Aserejé? Macarena?
Bad Bunny, being our new Columbus.
Playitas, islas, karagatan, nuestro paraíso.
Mas chismes, mas tazas de cafe.
How do you think we're so far yet so alike?
Of all these things? Con chisme? Claro.
So which one first? The juiciest or latest?

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.

𝑵𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔,
𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒆𝒔𝒕á𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒎𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝑫𝒊𝒐𝒔
𝒚 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒐,
𝒂𝒒𝒖í 𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒊 𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒊ó𝒏 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒏𝒐𝒔;

𝑵𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔,
𝑷𝒂𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒔
𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔,
¡𝑻𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒛𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒔!

𝑵𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔,
𝑹𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒔
𝒚 𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒗𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒔,
¡𝑵𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒊!

𝑵𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔,
𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒓ó𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒔
𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒃𝒓ó𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔,
¡𝑻𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒔!

¿𝑸𝒖𝒆 𝒎á𝒔?
¡𝑨𝒉, 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒐, 𝒄𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂 𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒔 𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔!
¡𝑴𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒍𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒔 𝒆𝒍 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒐
𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒐𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒔!

𝑵𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔,
𝑪𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒔 𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒔,
𝑬𝒔𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒈𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍,
𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒔 𝒑𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒔.
¡𝑵𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒊, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒕ú 𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔
𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒍 𝒈𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓!

¿𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒎á𝒔?
¡𝑷𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒎á𝒔!
𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒔,
𝒍𝒂 𝒎á𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒕í𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒂 𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒂.
¡𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒗í𝒂 𝒏𝒐 𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒕í𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒔, 𝒑𝒂𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔!

¡𝑨𝒚, 𝑵𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔!
𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒆𝒔𝒕á𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒎𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝑫𝒊𝒐𝒔
𝒚 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒐,
𝒂𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒒𝒖é 𝒉𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔
𝒅𝒆 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒖𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒐.

𝑷𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐,
𝑵𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔,
𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒂 𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒐𝒔,
¡𝒍í𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒛 𝒚 𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆!

𝑨𝒎𝒆𝒏.

But that's it, right?
People are forces of nature.
We are nature ourselves.
And nature sometimes hurts,
if not often. Or always.
We call them calamities.
But why can you find the word “calm” in it?
But that's just how it really is.
That's nature, literally.
But that's it, right?
We touch and we destroy.
Because people are forces of nature.
We kiss and we wave goodbye.
Because we are nature ourselves.
We're like ripcurls that hurts.
Almost always.
We are calamities.
And that's just how it is, right?
God made us to either kiss or ****.
Why do you think womb rhymes with tomb?
That's just how love is, isn't?
It could save you, yet it could shake you.
It could help you, yet it could hurt you.
It could be the most giving, generous
yet it could be unforgiving, disastrous.
It could be your calm and serenity,
and it could be your storm and calamity.

What of languages, if you only need one or two words to say you're sorry?

What of learning dialects, if you only need a single sentence to tell me why you think I deserved whatever **** you've put me in?

What use are the multiple languages you speak, when you can't use a single one of them to justify what you did?

What about the new language you taught me, is it even ours to begin with?
What good is it, if I'm now gagged, silenced and mute?

So what of languages, if you are to be exiled soon, with your tongue tied too?

So what of my dialects, if I couldn't even ask myself to forgive and forget, to let it go and give it a rest?

So what use are the multiple languages we speak, if we can't use a single word, a sentence, not a single language to say
the multitudes of feelings we feel?

What about the new language you taught me? I wanna write these words in scripts, only to light them in a fire.
How good will it be, if I were to be the bad guy this time?

Mientras no estás,
tengo confesiones que hacer.
Y mientras estoy aquí,
también tengo unas preguntas que hacer.

Estoy esperando tu regreso,
¿tú también estás esperando el mío?
¿Crees que el verano también
extraño el invierno y el frío?

¿Crees que la luna extraña el mar,
por eso sigue tirando de las mareas?
¿Son las conchas las lágrimas de la luna?
¿Son las olas el sonido de sus gritos y peleas?

Estoy esperando que vuelvas,
¿O tú también estás esperando mi llegada?
¿Crees que Dios también extraño
el mundo tranquilo y vacío?

¿Crees que el sol extraño al mundo,
es por eso que hay flores y frutas?
¿Son las flores los besos del sol?
¿Y son los frutos la prueba de su amor?

¿Crees que de todos modos Dios ama tanto
el mundo desordenado,
que nos dio a su hijo y la luna y por eso pintó
los colores de verano para el mundo?

¿Crees que Dios te ama tanto,
por eso te creó perfectamente,
nos dio la vida y el sol
y por eso me creó para ti, no el es justo?

Mientras espero tu regreso,
yo haré vuelto a nacer.
Y cuando estés aquí,
no tendremos más que placer.

Ang awitin ng mga armas,
ang katahimikan ng kampana,
ang tinig ng mga bala,
ang kawalan ng himno ng misa.

Balikan mo ang kwento ng nayon,
bilhin mo ang bawat minuto at oras,
mag-baliktanaw sa kahapon at ngayon
nang ‘di ma-balewala ang bukas at wakas.

Ang himig ng mga nagliliparang pana,
bulong ng mga dasal at adhikain,
ang ungol ng mga sundalong sugatan,
bitbit ko sa aking kasal sa kanluranin.

Balikan mo ang kwento ng nayon,
bilhin mo ang bawat minuto at oras,
mag-baliktanaw sa kahapon at ngayon
nang ‘di ma-balewala ang bukas at wakas.

So many more things I would have loved
to share with you.
So many more stories I would have loved
to exchange with you.
So many more words I would have loved
to learn and unlearn with you.
So many more emotions I would have loved to know if you feel the same way, too.
So many more things I would have loved
to share with you.
Your music.
Your warmth.
Your personal space.
Your laughter and their sounds, reverberating between our bodies.
Our bodies.
The night.
My tongue.
The silver moon sparkling.
Your necklace, I want to share it, too.
Your rib and my rib, kissing too.

𝑬𝒔 𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒐. 𝑺𝒐𝒚 𝒚𝒐.
𝑳𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒍𝒂,
𝒉𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂 𝒍𝒂 𝒊𝒔𝒍𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒇𝒖𝒆𝒈𝒐
𝒚 𝒍𝒂 𝒊𝒔𝒍𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒔.

𝑬𝒔 𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒐. 𝑺𝒐𝒚 𝒚𝒐.
¡𝑳𝒂 𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒂!
𝒀 𝒏𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒂 𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂,
𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒐 𝑳𝑨 𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒂!
𝑳𝒂 ú𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒂. 𝑬𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒚 𝒚𝒐.

𝑫𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒚𝒂 𝒗𝒐𝒚.
𝑫𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒔é 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒔
𝒚 𝒔𝒆 𝒍𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒓é 𝒔𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒍 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒐.
𝑫𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒍𝒆 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒓í𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒆.
𝑫𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒍𝒆 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒅𝒓í𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆.
𝑺𝒐𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒏𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒅𝒓í𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒓.

𝑷𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒑𝒖𝒆𝒅𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒑𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒂
𝒚 𝒏𝒐 𝒑𝒖𝒆𝒅𝒂𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒅𝒂.
𝑺𝒐𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒏𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒅𝒓í𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒓.

𝑸𝒖𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒐𝒔.

                            
                              𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒚𝒐,
                      ­  𝑳𝒂 𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒂

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?