Alone. In the center
of an intersection.

He leads travelers
to their corresponding
destinations.

Yet he himself
can't seem
to move on.

She asked, "Why do you always look so
intoxicated?" It rendered me speechless.

Maybe it's just the bad posture, or lazy eyes
drooping to the floor, or the feeling
of being surrounded by people
in aimless conversations.

I don't intend to tell her. She doesn't know.

That owls are nocturnal
because they desire to avoid
the abomination that is the morning.

Flight over fight.

Everything is happening
in split-seconds. I'm afraid
there is no evidence
to these memories.

I need sleep.

I will never understand:
this asphalt road that feeds on
precious time, interweaving footprints
headed nowhere, the broken stoplight  
at the end of the street, or
the next **** thing
I'd see.

I could chase the moon all night
and never get there. I could light
another cigarette if it's to prove
that everything is more than just hurt.

I'd search the universe for answers
if I can, but sometimes
the very thing I'm looking for
is the one thing I can't see.

Impyerno.

Im.. im.. impyerno ang nadarama.
Nakabilad sa sikat ng araw. Taya
at buro pa yata.

Sabay na inaabangan:
ang pagkakamali,
at tawag ni inay —
mas importante ang nauna
ngunit parehas nakakatakot.

Sa isip-isip ko:

“Mahulog ka sana,
upang mataya na kita.”

Pero ang ninanais ba ay totoo
o para lamang masalo? Ang puso

at marahil
noon ko rin unang nalaman
ang agwat ng mga platapormang
inaapakan.

Malapit ngunit malayo.
Ako'y isa lamang kalaro.
Langit ka; lupa ako.

Today I've learned why
some stories have open endings
and how grotesque paintings
cost millions.

Like when I secretly
peeped through the glass
portion of the door
when she was nearing
the end of her routine.

She spun perfectly balanced
with the tip of her toe, eventually
settling in a form
of a bow rose hunter.

It was confusingly stunning.

I couldn't understand
half of what transpired but
I guess that's the whole point.

I get to dream
while she keeps her privacy.

I.) Faint scents harmonize
with various forms of language
which mortals find puzzling.

But we’re different, we know how
words wound. It smells like blood,
bittersweet if tasted.

II.) We're building walls around heaven
because we're afraid of needing
things we might be obsessed to.

III.) Others tried to reach the mystical place
above, but were unsuccessful.
They can only do so
when wings don’t prevent them
from falling.

IV.) Two worlds prayed for a chance
to break the barrier. It can only happen
when prayers quit needing words.

The artist itself is the only one
who knows the true meaning
behind his work. We’re free
to speculate but can never be
certain, yet judge.

If the world is a piece of art, then
that would be simultaneously coherent
and messed up.

Everything’s a theory:
its maker, if he’s really out there
in the open, if i’m just seeing things
in a wrong perspective,

or if all of this is even worth
thinking about.