I was selfless in my love for you,
I made the mistake of desiring you,
I thought I didn’t need you,
I traced the faultline between me and you,
I wanted to free from the mess that trapped you,
I still sometimes reside in a residue of you,
I sometimes let it dissolve and break free from you,
I sit and ponder on how your love meant everything when I never gave it to you,
I still smile when I think of you.

Birthed from perfect unknown void,
Crescendos of unific silence
And a ****** ear reflecting,
A Gift between Two Brothers discontent
Interweaves them now and evermore
In fraternal ******* to a nondual realm.
A lightning seed of thought between two darks,
One light enough to fade the cosmic frown,
To be reborn in strife eternal,
And set the Cycle hastening to a Muse.
His flickering strands dehiscing essence,
The perfect fracture in a faultless whole,
It brings to bear the Change supernal:
The Triple Sequence timely folding,
Unfolds the Rhapsody of Seasons:
Wind, Sea and Earth alighting
Origins of Fire churning dim:
Clear rippling of finality forgotten,
New pressing through into existence,
Her gaze a creature to its own illumination
Renewed, with steaming boundaries... ragged breath:
Living sparks to contemplate the Stars,
And Satyr forward lustful genesis.
The hidden sun plays throughout the wood
A fragant melody of Light held fast,
Of Shadow pregnant and yearning
Bursting forth in spray of life subdued,
Laid low by Rhythmic pulse
And Timeless sea of tempoed mystery.
The hoard takes form, enraged--
A battle-morning's thralling mist of
Early spirits condensate to cling...
That vast blank anticenter dares to mock
With bated fragile brandishings, the
Violent frame of peace-horizons
Stepping out of step, Undeath whining
For a loss of Truth continual. Yet
Hope is wheeling her neoteric self
Upon that sovereign evanescence
Web-like spinning still, a prior sense,
A transfinite faultline of life yet unborn,
Of death still unwrought and wrought again
In hues of growth, and dreams of change,
Waiting silently for Books of Song.

Our shoes track mud as we walk through the football field behind the Ateneo building, having snuck past the silhouette of a security guard who spent a few too many minutes checking on his beat up motorcycle.

Her flats are probably ruined. While my sneakers are littered with earth which my parents will notice later, asking, “where on earth did you go?”, though in reply I know I will only be able to smile, still unpracticed as I am in white lies.

But I don’t worry. Worry is the last thing on my mind as we make that long stretch from the track and field oval to the clearing which overlooks the Marikina skyline. We could have taken the long way and skirted past the grass, but part of me is glad that we are here instead, footsteps sloshing through wet soil which reminds me of the downpour that arrived only hours ago.

There’s a thunderstorm nearby, and the clouds have formed a grey and lonely ring around the field. Out in the evening she points out a lightning strike, and I notice how those bursts of light bring out the features of a muddled sky. With every muted roar I note a previously unnoticed cloud, whose outlines become clear for short moments.

I point out a small **** in the soil, and make a cautious jump to the other side, ungraceful as I am. She’s nimbler and makes it across first, laughing as I fumble with my footsteps, more leftover rain seeping into my socks. And then, like that, we’ve made it to the football field’s far end; it’s quiet, save the occasional rumble of thunder, and I steal a glance at her, still taking it all in.

The Ateneo football field ends on an unfenced promontory, with brambles and crooked trees marking an entry into wilderness, the track and field oval a cautious boundary. This land, she says, is traced out by a faultline, the leap between the overlooking soil and skyscrapers below a memorial to a previous quake. The branches of trees frame our view with leaves that block out dim stars.

Out of her sling bag, she pulls out a towel, and stretches it onto the damp asphalt. We sit down on the cloth and stare over the cliff, wondering at how we arrived here. My reason is still catching up to my heartbeat, and all these spare and separate details seem to come together in sharp clarity — the aftermath of monsoon rains, the low glow of a night sky, the clouds which gather around us in smoky pillars and open up into the crescent moon, her voice.

Wreathed as it is in shadows I can still catch the small shape of her smile.

...

on the nights
the immortal girls
their
andromeda hips
are
blowing dusted sunlight out of
angelic *****
and pursing cherry red
****** vagrant lips
i want to be
the first and
the last
sealing the faultline
of devotion
with your
unrequited thoughts
said aloud from your cigarette mouth
while  
all
the other lonely girls
at
the second chance ballet
dance inside the smokeclouds stack
share their lipstick
and
blush

there's no poetry between us
in the inches of soil and grass that add milage to the distance
there is no tragic stanza
no iambs to recount and consider
no melody
my heart has a break in it
a faultline unabridged
your spaces are defective.
there's no poetry between us
i don't think there ever was

imagine yourself                                                                                                                                                          here,

                                                                               at the beginning
                                                                                                  and end
                                                                               of all things

                                                     where a mass of unthoughts points vaguely


to a blank center-->



                                                                       ^where desires converge^
and where a sovereign evanescence
                                       wheels your neoteric self upon the world. silently;

        steaming boundaries condensate
                                            along that transfinite faultline
                                                                                pressing through existence;

                         lightning summoned to our complacent
                                                                         belief in peace.

says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have

many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,

what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face

chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings

You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
  horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.

Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,

I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate

into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness.   Delicate essence

the    neon sign says, glaring through the
  glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
  separate had no omen of rain.

I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,

       feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
   this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.

It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.

His ebony wings were spread-eagled, nailed crimson to a 
Cross (my heart, hope to die)
Head bowed, body dangling from gossamer strings pulled by 
Shadows mouthing out lyrics to an 
Unsung melody; a siren
Song of surrender and serenity amidst fragments
Of a fairytale heart that eternity tends to tear apart. 
Ichor peeks out from sleek surgical cuts, frosting his heart with
Thoughts that don't belong to him,
Voices that say "This is truth this 
Is gospel so take it take it or leave it" but there's never really a choice, not really.
And he's a blind man waiting for the sunrise:
Black and black and black and blue but he can't see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore
Where is it? 
Where is paradise? 
So under the stars it is- walking, walking, walking till his eyes smile with the light of constellations, chest rises without the weight of a thousand planets. Finally. 
Finally. *
The sun has risen when the train tracks suddenly cleaves in half and
he *chooses.
He chooses freedom.
Instantly the perpiration latches itself on him like a long-lost lover, but it doesn't taste like the 
barrel of a gun anymore
So he keeps trudging, dreaming about once-upon-a-time wings and caresses of the wind that drew shivers down his spine and sketched onto him an electric soul 
He blinks the roaring sand from his eyes,
When suddenly he finds himself lost, derailed, bare feet blazing, gazing 
up into the periwinkle desert sky. 
The abyss yawns louder and louder:
The sand is beige beckoning, the rocks burgundy bewitching
Slowly he leans forward--A tipping scale 
But he doesnotfall,doesnotfly, hovering on the edge of a shimmering faultline
Instead he melts into the arms wrapped around his waist (pulling him back)
every scar, every word he doesn't speak out loud outlined in unfamiliar pain and a scarlet emotion he doesn't recognise
In his ears are matching heartbeats, echoes ricocheting off bullet-proof wards, hiding a
Rock and roll soul
Look up just a little and he's drowning, heisdrowningdrowningdrowning in a troubled sea of brilliant green and flecks of gold
Cards fold, feet bold
Into the darkness he fell, bracing for the crash-land.
Rolling heads over heels, till the damp dust settles and lips meet lips.
What a sight. 
For once in his life, he doesn't fight. 
For a long time, they sit like that--back against back, 
Until cerulean blue eyes turns to amber and spring-bud green burns to ash.

Two days. 
Two days drowning in the cacophonous silence of chaos
Burrowing deep into my waterlogged bones two
Nights kept alive by remnants of a forgotten time, 
Foggy after-images of thunderstorms and 
Learning to dance in the exuberant rain;
An under-developed photo.
Colours, that what you were. Chasing clashing carnival 
Colours. 

Two days. 
Two days burning alive. 
One day I'll turn to ashes, I swear.
These flames burn blue,
They burn with heat of missing you;
Grim golden, sorry scarlet
Do you miss me too? I try 
Not to think (I do) but you slither inside my
Mind like tongues 
Don't you know I'll burn you
Too?

Baby girl,
Do you remember that sunset we spent on the cliff like lust-filled teenagers?
We were feather-light then, floating to wherever the 
Wind blew us to. Wanderlust coated our skin a pearly white and there were
Nothing but sheets between us; a shimmering
Faultline we dared not cross. 
(You probably forgot) 
The way my heart felt as you cradled it in your sleeve. 
In that moment I realised all I could ever be was stone 
Cold, heart sold 
You carved me a rose, I threw you a hose
Its my fault, 
I should've known all I ever did was water you down, 
Dim your spark.
Its my fault, 
Forgive me for letting you drown. 

Baby boy,
I want you to know this:
I'm sorry. 
I'm sorry for ever meeting you.
Sometimes I wonder, what were the chances?
Seven billion other souls to ignite,
But the Devil chose you.
I don't regret anything, the pain, the 
Charred black bond we used to share
Darling, you don't deserve hell like me.
No one deserves hell like me
Don't worry sweetie, they could never steal us,
Not the memories at least:
I've locked them away for another hour, another 
Time, another age to savour:
The son of Man and the Devil's daughter.
I was selfish, but please
Promise me one thing. 
Don't ever forget me, will you?
Not when the tides turn, not even 
when hell burns. *

So one more day passes agonizingly, then two
The seconds fall like honey, I can't bear to look at you
Day three, I'm taking a breath and gathering my courage
I watch as you approach me and my pumpkin carriage
Is that longing on your face or am I imagining things?
I'm not prepared for this-the room starts to spin
Three metres, two metres, one and oh ****. 
My mouth feels too dry, I'm going to be sick.

-An uncomfortable silence-

Hey.
Hey.
So, are we still--
Friends?
Yeah, friends.

The smile that he smiles has me held tongue-tied*
Well, at least it better than saying goodbye.

Peering through azure smog
backlit by brittle sun
in this hard city
where survival is
only one option.

Born **** naked and crying,
when will this end?

Hit on the head
so many times, perhaps
it is beginning to show.

Your look so silent and wistful
chilled me to the marrow.

And so, leaving the faultline behind
I go scrawling words on cave walls
with absolute integrity.