The clouds are heavier
than my mascara;
my lashes are the weighing scales,
they're pressing them down, down,
now I'm feeling down, down.
My eyes were the drunkest
until they met with this waterfall
that makes the cars dance
outside my bus window.
Be this north, south,
east, or west;
all I know is forward,
it gets better there.
And what do you know,
I told you so;
the clouds are getting thinner here,
now that we're finally here.
The cone trees align
like constellations,
the air is eucalyptus
in my lungs,
and the sky spread
like one giant cloud
that swallowed up the sun
so it's still bright
even if it's already about to be night.
I guess the four long rides
are worth the sight
of these foreign horses
and this patch of a pineapple field.
Above me, the sea;
below me, the city.
The foam and fog
made everything gray-blue
and the landscape is a moving painting
where the santan flowers are magnified
and the mountains are blurred.
We went up and down,
hill by hill;
left and right,
tree to tree
to be somewhere
and nowhere
at the same time.
This hanging bridge
would be more thrilling
if I were to fall
and start a landslide.
It's getting darker
and the flickering of the city
is no longer in silhouette
but in full incandescence
like that of twinkling stars
or Christmas lights 'round the park,
and suddenly breathing
is an amusement.
Now there's a cricket and bird duet
featuring the frogs
and we're walking in the dark,
finding our way
through this maze
of ilang-ilangs and moss,
with the new moon as our north star,
tracing our steps back
while I lose vision of
the lines on my paper.
A little firefly leads us out,
then we're back at the same
yellowbell stairs from the way in.
Coldness has never been
this memorable
and I'd always remember
how the Tagaytay wind
swept me off my feet
and took me back
to this tricycle ride,
back to this bus ride,
and then home
to one of our many homes.