We've been in several sleeping places.
Hotel rooms, apartelles, condotels,
cheap, dilapidated motels.
Would often wonder
who were the last occupants before we came.
Were they a couple?
A paid ******* and her customer?
(or maybe it's the other pronoun)
Two friends, lonely
and sexually craving for a warm body,
any familiar body?
(at the risk of being strangers the morning after)

Some rooms we've been in reeked
of loneliness and secrecy.
Some had crisp, clean sheets,
all traces of body fluids
laundered and bleached.
Ready to absorb our own.

I look at the walls.
Plastered white.
Crumbling green.
Peeling beige.

How many moans of pleasure
(faked or authentic) tried to seep into them
against the solid cement  towards another room?
Were they all moans, those sounds?
What if some were howling,
of force, of "first-time" pains,
of lost virginities?

The creaking of bed posts is the musical score of a three-hour narrative.

could be longer, could be shorter. Only
they can tell. There could be
cuddling (if they are lucky)
or turned backs (if they are ******).
Worse,
one could be sobbing.
Soundless, inconspicuous sobs
even the body beside her
cannot hear.

"I'm happy you're sleepy.
Instead of falling in love or falling apart, why not fall asleep instead and get your exhausted mind some much needed slumber and silence."

"Instead of falling in love or falling asleep, why don't you fall apart instead? Then pick yourself up and maybe ask us to help you if there are any missing pieces."

"Thanks. That's thoughtful.
It's just that falling in love feels like life and falling asleep feels like death but falling apart feels like dying."

n.v.

She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through.
Then passed right by–
And never knew
She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through.
Then passed right by–
And never knew.

-Shel Silverstein

Masikip at maliit
madilim at mainit
mga pang-uring aking naiisip
sa tuwing naalala ang mumunti
nating silid.

Masikip at maliit
madilim at mainit
ngunit sa loob ng apat na sulok
dito tayo'y malayang mangarap
matapang sumubok.

Masikip at maliit
madilim at mainit
lumagi sa loob ng isang taon, maraming buwan,  sa wakas, atin na rin, akin na ring
tinuring na tahanan.

Sinalungguhitan

I have a confession.

Only your skin makes me alive now.
Only the crook in your neck gives me warmth,
and thaws the winter in my heart.
Only your eyes light this seemingly tunnel of darkness I am crawling in.

I let your lips trace my body,
Only because I need to know I am
not yet formless,
only to feel the touch
because I need to know I am
not a ghost yet.
I open my mouth for your mouth,
and taste you, and you breathe life into me.

You do not know this. No, not yet.

Gusto ko na rin umuwi,
humimbing, manahan,
sa tugtog niya, sa tinig niya,
sa tahanan kong siya.

Ilang araw na ring
nagpigil umaming
masyadong malayo ang dito
sa diyan.
Madalas, minsan, malimit
magulo ang isip sa tuwing gabi'y tahimik.
Binibilang ang mga araw, nadadagdagan ang pananabik
hanggang umapaw na at naging luha walang tigil umagos.

Atras, abante
ang mga along natotorpe.

Atras.
Natakot, nahiya
baka raw mabasa
Ang mga paa
ng mayuming dalaga.

Abante.
Sinisante na ang kimi,
alon ay nagbaka-sakali.
Kaya't dalaga ay nakiliti
nang ang tubig ay dumampi
sa kanyang mga daliri.

Penelope must have felt this way.
Weaving in the morning,
unweaving at night.
This threadwork of colors
forming, unforming
rolling, unrolling
running stitches, leaving holes,
loose, loose tiny holes.

I begin our story,
stop midway. Wasting
ink. Wasting
paper. Killing
trees. Hanging
my right hand in the air. Creaking
the door is. Only
it is the wind.

Holding out until your homecoming.

you are tired
he thinks
and he was right

you are tired
because
within you
is a jar of words
unspoken
the letters
have become jumbled.

it has been weeks
since the night you
attempted to remember
the correct patterns.

did you mean
'here'
or a letter more?
'there'.

it sounds more correct
but sadder.

I tried to
recreate the memory
of the night.

I bought ice
cream, from the corner
store and
ate it
outside,
under the sky.

It was the same flavor,
but it did not taste right.
It did not
taste like
stars.

You
are an entire
universe of
metaphors and narratives
unwritten.

The leaves are falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning "no".

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We're all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It's in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

Rainer Maria Rilke

I live in a house
with wafer walls
paper thin
crispy, crumbling
when scraped, snowflakes.

I live in a house
with wafer walls,
sounds seeping
in the crisscross lattice,
in the holes
of the foam.

I live in a house
with wafer walls,
porous, absorbent of tears
and angry words,
melting feelings
in the middle.

I told God,
"Write a poem please."
he looked down,
pointed at me.
"I already did."

How you do it:
Lock your arms around her,
and rest her head on your chest.
Enclosed in that embrace
she hears her heart race. (Or is it yours?)
And brace herself for the unknown.

You turn words into melted ice,
cold, searing the skin.
Even her name sounds foreign in your mouth.
A term of endearment
for a lover, on a retrouvailles.

How you did it:
Built a prison
in the rubble of memories.