it
bears all the signs of sharing...
yours,
mine, all our stuffs combined...
the
dresser and side tables,
in
the closet, and bookshelves, too.

the
walls are painted white.
somehow,
i see them now as dull gray...
my
side of the bed is warm and wrinkled,
while
yours is neat and cold.

the
glum atmosphere within
merges
with  my somber mood.
i
sigh, in need of fresh air, but
far
greater is my need for you to come back.

our
room cries for space...
yes,
it suffocates in silence...
but
in its crowdedness,
emptiness,
creeps through.....

(Published 1997)

Sally
       Copyright 2013
      Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Tendonitis                                                       ­                                                                 ­                                        
is a small price to pay for euphoria.                                                        ­                                                          

he gasped at the brink of
                                    success
mouth agape and strained
like pulled taffy
This project
embraced him entirely
consumed like a long lost relative
Sometimes we don’t climb.                                                           ­                                                                 ­        
we dance.                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                      
It was no longer clear
whether he climbed more than
the earth climbed him: she clambered inside,
ascending further into his psyche
with every
stretched, pulsing
muscle grasp
happiness bleeds into our                                                              ­                                                                 ­     
contorted                                                       ­                                                                 ­                                          
torso-Grace.          ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                
like water running the                                                              ­                                                                 ­           
pigment lines of                                                               ­                                                                 ­                    
saturated paintings.                                                       ­                                                                 ­                      
He cried out
impassioned,
shedding the skin of his palms
again-
upturned and reaching
like a caustic supplication
endowed with
vibrating desire,
quaking faith.

This time
he fell hard.
and again,
slap mat against the grain
of success
flung downward
like a thrice worn shirt

But wait-
and watch.
She calls him weeping-
a contrite lover
and he will return
to her brutality
nursed with humility-
intoxicated with exhilaration.