I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
    enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
    enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everyday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

in the infernal uproar of possibilities when the universe halted an alternative course of movement (to which eternity might be possible in a cosmic place as a confirmation congruent to a derivative of consciousness), there lies an ephemeral mind; at a certain point in time being, who thinks that everything will be plausible in a galaxy of transcendence.

if a particle moves alongside this ephemeral consciousness to which it caused a disturbance, every particle of the latter might be in flux.

[you are that particle]

and if and when, in a conscious state of space and time you sporadically moved and pulled the orbit to which i constantly managed to retain the equilibrium, then should the universe permit us to drift into the internal immobility of togetherness, we became infinitesimal--
but only through the metaphysics of time being.

[at least we had]

(03/09/17)

she asked him,
“how do you ignite a fire without
creating light?”

he asked her,
“how do you light the stars without
creating darkness?”

they looked into each other’s eye
imprinting their souls into the unknown
lost into their unimaginable oblivions
of lightness and darkness and even
those in between.

she was lost in the apparitions of uncertainties
where fragments of her being slowly fall like those
petals of red roses once given to her by the man
she only loved when she was still young and
vigorous and beautiful;
she can still hear the loud, inscrutable silences
of people waiting for the train as if the antidote
for their long-suppressed emotional  regressions
depend on this vehicle where the inevitable
cycle of coming and going makes them question
their existence—yet,
after all the nuisances this world offers
she always finds herself lost in a swarm
of human beings whose souls continuously wander
for the enigmas of truth and shades of faith only
for the reason that in the process of losing herself she
could find herself—once more.
she always wonders what lies within the eyes
of people whose lives she randomly intersect with that
made her feel alive. she felt that in
letting herself get lost in places people normally crossed;
one by one she was getting a portion of herself
from their souls—
the paradoxes of their expelled breaths;
their incessant internal monologues;
their bittersweet afflictions;
the achingly pleasurable warmth of their skin;
the vulnerability of their voice;
the resiliency of their hearts;
and the combination of their grotesque yet
picturesque visions in her eyes— that made her whole.
she was standing in the middle of nowhere; oblivious
of her world’s  existence when she remembered
the reason why she forgot to redeem the love from those petals
of red roses she buried within the pages of her favorite book.
with the moonlight showering upon her being, she felt the
rapture from her heart as it slowly knocks and awakens
her soul with certainty— like a lost child coming home at last.

*06.21.16

maybe we were two lonely souls in an
infinite number of universes
that coexists at the same time
so in the least cases when other universes
cease to rotate;
we were looking at each other’s eye—
half consciously exchanging breaths as we stood
in a random street on a random time with random people
in Metro Manila.

maybe we were two lonely souls
devoid of life with its absurdities and ambiguities
that when other universes began to move—
adverse was ours.
we were motionless and breathless
and static and frantic
amongst the dismal place where we stood
under the rain and under the heat of the sun;
dear, did you feel the spontaneity of our souls
for the first time in a lifetime?

maybe we were two lonely souls
searching for our own universe in this
infinite number of universes that when
we finally had the chance to meet on
a road with nowhere to go while listening
to our timeless symphonies of pleasure, pain, and lost;
we found universe at each other’s soul.

maybe we were two lonely souls
before we met in Metro Manila.
maybe we were two lonely souls
when we were living in abyss.
maybe we were two lonely souls
before we found our infinite universe at each other.
maybe we were two lonely souls
before we knew love.

(06.19.16)

❝ Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter. ❞ — African proverb