Do you still feel sorry
for your loss
everytime I cross your mind?

Do you still have grief
over my death
because I
am your unfinished business?

Do you still get the creeps
everytime you thought
you saw the ghost of me
when it was just your regrets
coming to life
to haunt you again?

Do you still visit
my tombstone
and mourn over the carvings
that my name made
on the stone walls of your heart?

Do you still want to dig me
out of my grave in your memory
and wish I had a proper funeral
instead of being buried
when I still lived
after you tried to **** me?

Because I do.

The clouds are heavier
than my mascara;
my lashes are the weighing scales,
they're pressing them down, down,
now I'm feeling down, down.
My eyes were the drunkest
until they met with this waterfall
that makes the cars dance
outside my bus window.
Be this north, south,
east, or west;
all I know is forward,
it gets better there.
And what do you know,
I told you so;
the clouds are getting thinner here,
now that we're finally here.
The cone trees align
like constellations,
the air is eucalyptus
in my lungs,
and the sky spread
like one giant cloud
that swallowed up the sun
so it's still bright
even if it's already about to be night.
I guess the four long rides
are worth the sight
of these foreign horses
and this patch of a pineapple field.
Above me, the sea;
below me, the city.
The foam and fog
made everything gray-blue
and the landscape is a moving painting
where the santan flowers are magnified
and the mountains are blurred.
We went up and down,
hill by hill;
left and right,
tree to tree
to be somewhere
and nowhere
at the same time.
This hanging bridge
would be more thrilling
if I were to fall
and start a landslide.
It's getting darker
and the flickering of the city
is no longer in silhouette
but in full incandescence
like that of twinkling stars
or Christmas lights 'round the park,
and suddenly breathing
is an amusement.
Now there's a cricket and bird duet
featuring the frogs
and we're walking in the dark,
finding our way
through this maze
of ilang-ilangs and moss,
with the new moon as our north star,
tracing our steps back
while I lose vision of
the lines on my paper.
A little firefly leads us out,
then we're back at the same
yellowbell stairs from the way in.
Coldness has never been
this memorable
and I'd always remember
how the Tagaytay wind
swept me off my feet
and took me back
to this tricycle ride,
back to this bus ride,
and then home
to one of our many homes.

Through the moon
upon me,
you gaze some nights
and you, I see
in every star in the sky;
infinite futures ahold
yet no red dwarf
ever carries our own.
Time won't change
tomorrow's face,
no matter the days,
no matter the ways;
from here or Mars,
it won't look like ours.

I won't tell them
about how we exchanged thoughts
like sinners confessing
to God Himself,
like bride and groom
delivering their vows
for the first time.

I won't tell them
about how you kissed,
like you were peeling me
of all the people
I wore on my skin
until I'm a newborn again
and how I kissed back
as if my teeth were syringes
and your blood
is what would keep me alive.

I won't tell them
about how we made love
like a time bomb
detonating
over and over,
killing nothing
but space and time.

I won't tell them
how each word is a song
and each song is a serenade
and each serenade is a promise
and each promise is another day.

But I will tell them
how I held the rest of my life
everytime our fingers crisscrossed
as if the lines on our palms
connected like stars aligning
to give the universe a sign
of a divine intervention.
And I will tell them someday
that your eyes were crystal *****
that showed me my future
so I always knew I'd be with you.

Who needs chocolates
when your sweetness
goes beyond my tongue,
beyond my senses,
into my memory,
where it makes the taste
of everything sweet
seem sugar-free?

Who needs flowers
when I've got a field
spreading from our love,
filled with buds that don't die
and don't need colorful petals
to attract more than two,
forever growing,
with scent everlasting?

Who needs gifts
when everyday I get to
unwrap true love
covered in layers
of this friendship,
life's most valuable present
you can receive many times
but only keep once?

Who needs Valentine's day
when life itself,
for us,
is a celebration,
and our hearts are always
birthday celebrants
because everytime
feels like the first time?

I don't want to be
a lesson you go back to
when you need to remember
the definition of loss.

I don't want to be
a living memory
that breathes and laughs
only in your head,
so close but you can only see
when you close your eyes
and hold only in your dreams.

I don't want to be
a tenant who rents a space
only to leave
permanent damages
in your heart.


I want to be
a teacher you turn to
for inspiration
for things that last.

I want to be
an imagination happening
right before your eyes,
not in your mind
nor in your sleep,
whose hands you can hold
and lips you can kiss.

I want to be
a housekeeper who stays
to take care of your heart
and make it my home
for life.

Here, it hurts here,
where I'm supposed to
face big rolling rocks
as if I've got me a helmet
and iron fists.
This part, it hurts here,
where I'm supposed to
hand-pick gentle puffs of air,
not be smothered in smokes
that choke me up to see clearly.
Way up here, it hurts here,
where instead I try to get away
inwardly, far, far away,
towards nowhere,
rather than out.