strange faces
in a crowded bar
6 PM
business attire
some are young
still full of passion
some are ready
to retire

chatter hums
about things
that may just matter
to them
but to me
it's nonsense

like a passing train
steel wheels clattering
against well traveled rails
strange faces
forward, empty stares
moving so quickly
they blur into nothing
and dissipate from memory

no sooner
do crossing gates rise
and we drive
as if nothing
has happened

Hands hug a ceramic mug
warm like the touch of a lover.

Lips pressed firmly to the rim
met with a tender caffeine kiss

Coffee stained napkins
with naked truths
written all over in red ink.

Nothing worth publishing,
not even something
you’ll let friends see.

This is that real ****
that only you can read.

The mean things you say to yourself
when you’re not acting cool
in front of others.

The fantasies you dare not speak
in front of your mother
or even your closet lovers.

This is that real ****
that only you can read.

The stuff you deny in mixed company
even though you hate to lie.
That **** you want people to find.

But you won’t ever show them
because you think you’re ****** up;
so you lock it up inside that chest.

This is that real ****
that only you can read.

These are the kinds of words
that get torn up and thrown out
before you leave the café.

This is that real ****
that only you can read.

We will grow old,
You and me,
Grow back in time,
To where the bicycles
Were lopsided
And the streets very much
Old brick road,

With the oil lamps
And quiet nights spent
By candlelight,

With the weeping parchment
Blown to dry,
Scratched meticulously
By a dancing feather, oh

We will grow old.

And come back to the little
Park bench where we used to
Sit. Count the cracked, granite
Pillars that paint the
Pathways of the Champs Elyseé,
Or Bagumbayan,

Dance alone,
Along the Great Wall,
And sing, you and me,

With a Grand Piano and
Giant mandolin and everything.

And we will wear coats and ties
And flowing skirts
And hike our way down
To the cul-de-sacs of Venetian Manila,

Where the bridges are still
Shores of sea, on which
Young lovers, friends, students, artisans
Still comb for pearls,

Yes, indeed, we will grow old.

I still find myself
feeling your skin
in the spaces between
bed-sheet creases

and if
missing you is like
swerving into
oncoming traffic,
then tonight
I’m sleeping
in the road.