*for M. Perhaps,
this will be the
last.*
I.
It’s funny. How words try to eschew
from my mind whenever the table
topic calls your name. How the prompter
tries to say your name but my fingers
refused to dance to its rhythm. This
II.
has to be the last of this joke. This poem
will not speak. Muted. Like how it
III.
is supposed to be. This line
on my right palm is nothing
but an illusion. Because often times they are
trying to connect to yours. This has to be
IV.
the last time I will think
about your cruel punch
lines; my drunken lines; and these
unsent letters I am trying to bury
underneath the midnight darkness
just because I am afraid of them
as evidences for the trial I am
setting upon myself. Because it was
always been a crime—
it always has been.
V.
This has to be the last joke. And
I am done
being the laughing stock
for the crowd that is waiting
for us to falter
and leave me
hanging.