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Dinner starts way past
midnight. But candles render
useless; the light, the moon,
the sky illuminates like skin,
golden brown, cooked

to perfection. I found the right

mix—ice in a form of smile,
the friction of skin, the aroma
of unyielding perfume in the air,
washing the odor of burnt
meal served for love.

Then bed was a melting ***,
for tonight is a delicacy
in which you—I—become
a main course; we give

(to the ideology of sacrifice:)
the way we present ourselves
overcooked, overdone, but never
So tonight we are alone
at the park, and tonight,
the moon is at its biggest.

It’s fun to think of the universe
how she works undiscovered,

going one with nature:

look at the leaves: falling
like cherry blossoms. It is not
autumn, but still they fall

hard like the ground
had called them.

Hear the branches rustling,
shaking because they can’t

contain the blood rush
of a romantic scene shown

through klieg eyes.

Midnight wind whisper
serenity: no city lights,

no commotion. Only dead
stars flowering above us
and the grass kissing
our feet.

Under the moonlight,
you disappear like smoke
arising from almost-used

like an angel, called
by God, claiming

your mission is

I look at the moonlight.

A river ripples a reflection
on muddied puddle.

I swear that night
is the holiest.
These skyscrapers are monuments
built by God. See how the moon is
shining tonight, how she is a perfect
circle as minuscule as a pupil. But I’d like
to pretend that she dilates, waxes,
herself to become a halo for these
monuments that were created like ziggurats
to reach God. Because, all the while, they’re

as holy and immaculate as the night
sky above them washed by the river
of luminescent car headlights flooding
the streets and dead stars flowering

like Jesus once stood naked
on a river to be

Often time we hear things
phantom, What did you say?

A whispering skyline
says, hold me close; I feel
It is spring;

ice melted, but still
we feel the Winter’s
arms around us. And so,
we let this moment

unfold, speak the story
that it is supposed to tell
like prophecies written

on tabloids. Yes, we are
only following the wind’s
directions to hold
each other close.

We hear the leaves’ ruckus,
shaking branches as if feeling
the rush of blood of a romantic
scene in a movie. We never saw this

I held you tight, and with that,
we first heard friction and closeness

speak the words we’ve aching
to hear from each other. Dulcet,

like an ice cream melting, kissing
the pavement.
As always, I can feel the night’s
breath climb through my skin.
I am sitting here on this empty park
bench on a midnight waiting
for a taxi to stop by. Today’s
a holiday, and thus, the city
is devoid of its once river
of neon headlights coming
from speeding vehicles. I feel
the night’s embrace tightening
as minutes pass by. So I lit
a cigarette hoping to find
a hint of warmth. Then angels
spew out of my mouth
as If I have a choir boy’s
tongue. I see them rearrange the
stars and painted your face
because they all know
that tonight, is not a night
for a lonely heart to freeze
off in a corner of the street
waiting for something
that will never come.

And as the ash fall
off from this shortening
cigarette, the white holy
haze dispersed to oblivion
like your face did before
the sun burnt the sky
to the darkness that it is
I offer whatever bubbles up
from my mind to this city as each

of my foot became the water
for the shore that is the streets:

closing together then separating

like doors on these reveled city
clubs. I can hear the upbeat music,

and I can smell the smoke coming
from burning skins because times

like these are the secret well-kept
by the city: how friction became the language

of intimacy and the alcohol is nothing
but a gasoline to make rubbing easier.

I stood there like a stifled tree, closed my eyes,
and listened to the breeze of the midnight air,

this sure does feel like the shoreline.
I reminisced how the sky burned orange,

brightly holding the moment before turning
everything into ocean and sprinkled dust.

Still even when the city glows
the most under the day’s shadow,

Nothing can make my strabismus eyes
into feeling

Comfort than under a sky well burnt,
waiting to become the Pacific.
for M. Perhaps,
this will be the

It’s funny. How words try to eschew
from my mind whenever the table
topic calls your name. How the prompter
tries to say your name but my fingers
refused to dance to its rhythm. This

has to be the last of this joke. This poem
will not speak. Muted. Like how it

is supposed to be. This line
on my right palm is nothing

but an illusion. Because often times they are
trying to connect to yours. This has to be

the last time I will think
about your cruel punch
lines; my drunken lines; and these
unsent letters I am trying to bury

underneath the midnight darkness
just because I am afraid of them
as evidences for the trial I am
setting upon myself. Because it was
always been a crime—

it *always
has been.

This has to be the last joke. And

I am done
being the laughing stock

for the crowd that is waiting
for us to falter

and leave me

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