Maraming tao ang nagtatanong Bakit hindi ako nagsasawa sa kanya Andaming taong nagtatanong Ano bang meron at gustong gusto ko siya
Simula nung una ko siyang makita Naramdaman ko na siya na Siya na ang bubuo sa mundong kulang Kulang ng kanyang ganda at kabaitan
Ganda niya ay bukod tangi Tingin niya ay nakasasabik Wala akong ibang gustong makita Kundi ang kanyang matamis na mga mata
Hindi ko rin talaga alam Kung bakit gustong gusto ko siya Kung sa tutuusin Ay marami naman ang mas maganda sa kanya
Siguro ito na nga ang pag-ibig Hindi nakatingin sa panlabas na anyo Ngunit tapat at desidido Sa taong gustong **** maging kalaguyo
Minsan ako ay nagugulat sa aking pagiging tapat sa kanya. Kung tutuusin ay matagal na dapat akong nagkaroon ng ibang gusto dito sa unibersidad pero hinde. Mahal ko siya at patuloy akong iibig sa kanya hanggat sa mawalan na talaga ako ng pag-asa.
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept. The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.
Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.
Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.