I still remember that sad day, it was May 24, 2013;
the last time I saw you with the body that so thin.
You looked so weak and your eyes were scared.
You held my hand softly- I wasn't prepared.

I hated the way you suffered a lot.
But I've witnessed how you bravely fought.
It has been more than a year,
but what happened are still clear.

Oh hundreds of days are passing by,
You know I love you that my heart can't say goodbye.
Though now I know you're in the best place,
I still miss the moment when we don't have space.

Last night I saw you- in my dream.
You were wearing green and your smile gleamed.
I ran so fast and hugged you tightly.
I knew to myself that I miss you so badly.

I guess it God's way of saying, you are in peace,
and dreaming of you is saying, my love for you won't cease.
Seeing you in my dream is good enough,
believing that you're with the Lord is more than enough.


*-Steph Dionisio, October 15, 2014

Warmth passed between our bodies,
Your skin was soft and wet,
Let me breath out your name
bury it into your chest,
sweet sensation of touch,
oh how you ****** me,
gentle lover, silent sinner,
I have never craved the taste
of anyone as much as yours

The sound of your voice
Could lull me to sleep
Not because it's boring
but because it's relaxing enough for me to go to sleep normally

When my leg used to shake
because you were too close
but there was no more space left to move
It was in excitement and nervousness

You would put your ridiculously warm hand on my knee
and it would feel warm for a little while
You wanted it to stop shaking
but you wouldn't force it

Your singing
that i've heard
is quiet
and rather croakish

It sounded terrible and wonderful
It was country music
I was listening to fall out boy
You were listening to country

Such different music preferences

What a beautiful word after all.
Who would not love to be a candle
                        for some time,
just to have a dark room at his
or her entire disposition
in which to flick, in which to dance
with a windy darkness
so very much consumed
by the almost carnal desire
of possessing the light.

Let's pretend for a moment
we don't know its meaning.
Let's pretend it's just an echo
that has trespassed from the past,
cracked the arrow of time
to reach our ears as delivered
by a XIX century candle
that was just put out.

The flickering of lights should have
in fact a sound. In fact,
the dancing shadows on the walls
should scratch them make them
scream the horrors of their
silent nature, make the walls dance
and not only the cruel appearance
of the walls dancing, flickering,
as if concrete could play
to be wax for just one day.

I possibly can prove
that all major poets of this language
have used it
until the poor word died out,
until it was no more
than a leafless trunk,
mere linguistic trunk deprived
of the leaves of meaning.

But there's no resisting
the crucial titillating magic
of what gives us the chance
of referring to all which is so frail,
that could perish by the same gasp
that takes from us such frailty.