Siguro nga'y tayo lamang
ang mga tao sa mundo,
at ang mga ilaw sa daan ay disenyo lamang
ng mga 'di nakikitang kamay,
ang matamis na boses na nanggagaling sa kahon
ay likha lamang ng ating mga isip,
at ang mga katanungang pumupuno sa katahimikan
ay guniguni na dulot ng magdamag.

Ang puwang ba na pumapagitna ay tulay
o dingding?
Ang dilim ba'y bunga ng gabi o dahil
pareho tayong nakapikit?

Malabo ang lansangan sa likod ng salamin
ngunit ngayon, sa bulang ito,
lahat ay malinaw, totoo.

A pillow is a pillow
and not an extension of you;
a shirt is a shirt
and not a reminder of the ways you encompass me;
a ring is metal and rock,
not an upside down promise;
or words just a cluster of letters
and never your love—
because what are words in the grand scheme of things
but blankets a little too short,
a little too thin?
What good are threads if they come loose, unraveling
everything?
Here I come undone.
Here we fray.

when the street lights shadow play
across your face
and you're your own neon sign
and the velvet night feels like a blanket—
how electric

To revel in your solidness
when your grip of the wheel turns your
knuckles white and your palm
lays on my thigh
like that one song I could not stop listening to
two years ago

To revel in your togetherness
when it seems like nothing is changing
although everything is
and your laughter still resonates within the compact space
and the calm in your voice is a deserted beach at midnight

To revel in you
when the air is sweet
the tears, bitter
the wounds, rotting
the healing, slow—
how hauntingly beautiful

Maybe the end of the universe
does not lie in an explosion
or a hole that breathes black,
maybe it is right here
where stone benches reside
and the raindrops taunt like pesky little children
waiting for you to see them,
loud enough to mimic the silence
loud enough to sound like sorrow.
Maybe this is the end of the universe—
cosmic loneliness.
The stars are in a bitter drink
and the sun lies anywhere but within you
and your moon—why do they say that? To the moon and back?—your moon is a rock in your stomach
and only the fingers of the almost rain
weighs you down on dear, old Earth,
washing you off your tears.

Decent—
I hate that word.
My mother wants me to be decent
when all I really want to be,
what I actually am,
is loud,
color,
all mouth,
leather skirts,
and hoop earrings,
(an ode to the roundness of the sun)
nails in deep, dark red,
banging doors,
and laughing in all the wrong places.
She wants decent,
she means 'quiet'.
She means 'not anyone'.
She means 'forgettable'.
She means 'the kind you take home to momma'.
But, see—
I'm a Warhol pop art,
Kahlo brows,
that mouth in the Munch in a constant 'o',
the kind to put herself in an oven
and call it a day,
shirts cropped to their full potential,
belly button to the light,
black line drawn like a cat's,
maybe a little cherry on the lips
(the kind to kiss boys sweeter, dear).

But, okay, I love you—
and I will put on the heirloom pieces.
Just for tonight.

sickly sweet and sticky
honey
stains the checkered cloth,
a rusty blob
shaped like the birthmark
on your ribs,
except this one stays on my fingers
long after I touched it,
washed it,
licked it off,
and then it tastes like
nothing
and the saccharine surprise
exists only in memory

that sunny Sunday
when everything is yellow
and my knees are a little red and burnt
and ants colored like fire
form a trail
and the birthmark is
miles away
and I had to make do
with the honey

Oh, Anne.
I can see a butterfly
rise up from the blood stains
you left on the floor.