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.