or In One of the Bars in the City
You remind me about the brightest
spots here in the city. The spots that used to be your
memory, lavishing into the thought of the moon,
how it chiseled itself for the night to claim
it as its smile. So, this night, perhaps,
is a freckled smiling face. Your face
to be exact. How the stars scatter
correctly to form your freckles because
of your genes. Beautiful, sparkling
on the clean sheet of your skin.
Yes, this is how you remind me
about the city that seen and told
our story. How each wall of each skyscraper is
a page to tell a chapter. The flashing headlights
of each vehicle, how they became our crayons.
We are merely children playing, drawing pictograms
on counter doors. I mentioned skyscrapers. I was wrong;
there were no skyscrapers in Manila. Only in Makati.
But that never changes the fact
of this city, an open book for all of those
muggy nights when you religiously
places your lips against mine and eventually
against my skin; when you first made friction
talk. And it spoke every language I knew so fluently
that even our moans are words fit
for a poem. Ridiculous, jaded, fading,
but still, this mug of beer sparkle against the spotlights
of this bar. And yes, you are
sparkling like a city so alive
at the dead of night.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
or In One of the Bars in the City
You remind me about the brightest
spots here in the city. The spots that used to be your
memory, lavishing into the thought of the moon,
how it chiseled itself for the night to claim
it as its smile. So, this night, perhaps,
is a freckled smiling face. Your face
to be exact. How the stars scatter
correctly to form your freckles because
of your genes. Beautiful, sparkling
on the clean sheet of your skin.
Yes, this is how you remind me
about the city that seen and told
our story. How each wall of each skyscraper is
a page to tell a chapter. The flashing headlights
of each vehicle, how they became our crayons.
We are merely children playing, drawing pictograms
on counter doors. I mentioned skyscrapers. I was wrong;
there were no skyscrapers in Manila. Only in Makati.
But that never changes the fact
of this city, an open book for all of those
muggy nights when you religiously
places your lips against mine and eventually
against my skin; when you first made friction
talk. And it spoke every language I knew so fluently
that even our moans are words fit
for a poem. Ridiculous, jaded, fading,
but still, this mug of beer sparkle against the spotlights
of this bar. And yes, you are
sparkling like a city so alive
at the dead of night.
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