Months later as I ponder over all
that you were right about,
and all that I was right about, too,
I can’t help but wonder how
two people
that were so right could be so wrong.

After shamelessly dissecting each waking moment
from the first time I saw you across that crowded restaurant
to our series of wrestling matches and late night talks regarding our pasts
and the future that awaited us,
to the last time I bitterly, with tear-filled eyes, shook your hand goodbye,
I’ve concluded that everything said
was of the utmost truth
(with a few exceptions, of course)
and that your love for me was more genuine than most.
So why is it that I am asking myself this question for the
hundredth time
as I sit on my balcony watching the sun rise to the tips of the
dead, filemot colored hills after another
sleepless night?

Maybe we were too right.
Like two pieces of a puzzle that fit too tightly to be a match
no matter how hard you try to squeeze them together.
One always overpowering the other.
And so back we’re thrown into the vast pile of pieces,
perhaps finding each other again,
but never truly fitting until we realize that
maybe we weren’t so right after all.

“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the  de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.