the wind, unseen,
collides with the walls
and makes them sing
a groaning song.
a wail, a whisper,
then silence.
you hear.
you listen.

then the rain starts
to knock on your roof,
gentle at first like it is shy,
doubt in every drop
or consideration in its presence.
but you know in your heart
that it is not welcome
nor is its embrace;
you endure the knocking
and never dare to go outside
to greet it.
you will feel okay.

then the rain decides
it no longer cares.
the gentleness dissolves.
the pounding starts above you.
so does the pounding
behind your eyes.

the lights go out
and you are engulfed in darkness
making the spaces you've known
your whole life unfamiliar
all over again.
candles replace light bulbs,
orange replaces white.
there is a lick of a little flame
on your hands
wherever you go,
so you don't stumble—
a comfort from the shadows.

flashes of white lightning peek
behind the curtains
and illuminate your face
for a fraction of a second
and you feel either or both:
relief of light,
or a terrible fright.

what are you really afraid of?
lightning,
or the terrible thunder
that soon comes after?

but you lift your voice to the heavens
and remember to hum
your favorite song.

you pick your way through
the furniture and messy clothes
and open a door.
you lie in bed and surround yourself
with a thousand pillows
and your heaviest duvet.
warmth settles in you,
first in your spine,
last in your toes.
you shiver one last time
from the transition
of being cold to no longer.
you sink into your makeshift fortress
as your eyes adjust
to the faint contours of your room;
bathed in new light (in the dark).
you hear.
you see.

the world outside is in chaos,
but in Here you are safe;
the rain hammers ceaselessly,
unforgiving,
but in Here you are safe.

you feel.
you listen.

you sleep.

she is the kind of girl who will love you;
but not the kind who will shatter under the pressure of your callous thumb

she is the kind of girl who will love you;
but will not play martyr or stupid or numb.

she is the kind of girl who will love you;
and she will be graceful and caring and kind.

she is the kind of girl who will love you;
but will not be confined to the palm of your hand and to the back of your mind.

melodramatic voices
echo through my head,
liquefy out my lips,
and pool at the curve of my palm.

sometimes the voices
get too much.
so i smear them unto paper

and call them art.

soon the porch will be in shadows,
and my sunlight will be met
not by my hair or hopeful eyes
but by concrete walls instead.

and I fear I will have nowhere
but I won't go back inside.
as dreary as the porch will be,
I refuse the chance to hide.

your words, they sound
like rushing drums;
eccentric blood
that rings and hums.

your words, they feel
like feather beds.
a snowflake's kiss
upon our heads.

your words, they look
like morning dew
reflecting soft,
viridian hues.

your words, they taste
of clarity;
peculiar spice
of rarity.

your words, they smell
of night sea breeze,
and everything
that brings me ease.

your words, i keep
them close to me,

but you: a faded
memory.

have you ever felt so angry
that it was almost like magma
was hiding at the back of your throat?

pulsing and glowing and taking its time
before it erupts and dribbles down your chin,
flowing to your shoes and destroying
everything you've ever held close.

because lately, i've been postponing my eruption with these desperate words;

paper against fire
ink against magma

feeble stoppers to a bottle brimming to the mouth with froth, pressure building up and up and up—

crack goes the glass

paper against fire
ink against magma

sometimes they hold up
sometimes they just aren't enough.

heaven exists
and it is not
in the clouds
high above;

heaven exists
in the arms
of the person
you most love.

'di mo na kailangang mangamba pa
kung sinong sasalo sa'yo
pag ikaw ay nadapa;

aakapin kita,
hanggang handa ka nang
bumangon muli.
ako'y naririto,
mula pagsikat ng araw,
hanggang sa pagtanaw ng buwan --
sa pagtatampo't
pagbuhos ng tubig ulan,

mahal,
hindi kita iiwan.

maybe saying
too much
was the mistake
on my part;
explanation
ruined me
and explanation
ruins art.

if the scribbles on my arm
are anything to go by,
messy and short of
telling the world
my version of life,
then call me crazy,
call me hopeless --
just trying to empty my guts
and leave behind some baggage.
where else do you go,
tell me, then,
how do you do it,
serenade life into submission?
because i've been a little shy.
been hiding in the shadows
and giving you the eye,
asking you in silence.
tell me, tell me,
where else do you go,
when there's no one
left to call home?

slow, we walk and listen to the beach
whisper in salt and foam
as we get to know each other.

time trickles as you fill in
the picture frame standing on my dresser.
a spot just for you

even if i don't know it yet.

something in my chest blooms
when you're with me
and i'm with you:
a flower,
a thunderstorm,

a heart, alive.

weeks were wasted,
but days perfected.
how unforgiving:
time, and him.

while your heart is breaking
in front of a fire;
the world still spins,
and hope dies dim.

and when i'm half-awake,
with my phone pressed against my ear,
listening to your voice lulling me to sleep,
i swear we come face to face.
ankles touching,
hands tucked beneath our cheeks,
eyes connected,
hearts intertwining.

on different beds,
on the same page.

it'll do. darling,
it'll do.

vomiting hurts; it's too much work
so she swallows her tongue
and pretend it's candy.

i am still learning the language of the universe,
yet i am fluent in your presence.
slivers of silver run across my spine to yours –
and oddly, we connect.

our pinky fingers intertwine as whispers float above our heads,
telling of lost love and one that is to come.
and as we suspend in the middle of nowhere,
the words come to me in waves,
you catch them with your hands
and let them rest under your curled fingers.

to others we speak gibberish; not to us.
the language of the universe:
celestial and unnerving
a language we speak as one.