Cusp between days
Threshold of hours
meeting point of
yesterday and tomorrow
For all the eleven hours between us,
and all of the moments shared in between.
At breakfast, you tell me about dinner,
then you watch me make my way to work
while you wait for sleep to come.
Past midnight here and midday there
are our everyday hours: short,
too quickly greeted, too soon ended,
but constant —
like birds that chirp all around us during humid Amazonian mornings
or the smell of bread that follows us from the boulangeries in the streets of Paris
or the tickle of the third glass of wine on the lips, in whatever continent we taste it.
The sound, the smell, the taste – it lingers, leaves a trace, constant, it remains.
Like an image of you in my mind—
Ever smiling, ever moving, ever vibrant,
Ever there and never quite.
I keep your memory there,
Where the seconds lose meaning
And the hours need no counting.
Because at midday here or past midnight there,
we are nowhere there yet everywhere we wish to be:
a good morning greeting
almost as if you were breathing
within the reach of my fingertips—
soon enough, buena onda, indeed,
soon enough, it will be.
Quickly captured, a smudge,
a trick, a splitsecond stolen
then framed, then thrown
onto the wall, this memory —
a shade less bashful,
a brushstroke braver,
a degree warmer than midnight’s fever.
Here, a wasted glance.
Here, the corner you refuse to
sign your name on to.
(Or whatever, later, maybe a verse longer, maybe titled better)
when the doors of the elevator open
my eyes will make its way through
dressed in amber and rose
looking back at the space
of secrets only mirrors inside the box know
you dont reach out
because i am no longer with you
i am no longer with you
because i am within
i will be in the space you breathe
in the same rhythm you beat
in the same paths through doors that close
and open again
I turn on the TV to keep me company in your leave. Slumber comes and goes and I am left alone with the sound of a woman’s thick French accent drowned out by the hiss of a lush body of butter melting in the heat of a sleek steel pan. For an hour after noon, the room is dim. Even with all the lights on, there is a void punctuated by all things suddenly starkly visible: wrinkles on the bedspread, strands of hair, stacks of clutter, unsorted business gathering dust. Only the curtain shifts to the draft of a cold artificial breeze.
The air swells with your absence and I breathe.
In another morning after, the room will be aflush with the simmer of our exhales. Stillness tickled briskly, light will slip in through the tangle of limbs beneath crumpled sheets.
It is not that one has not tried again and again to alter the course of the lines or the sound of the waves that bounce off the page. It is that there are stubborn thoughts that will not yield. It is that it already is what it should be as it was first conceived: as if without beginning but with a definite end.
And if my fingers find themselves
lost through your hair again,
if i take a whiff of you again
own you for one brief moment again
Then let go. And lose all these
that I’ve known. Will they say
it’s so wrong? Then set fire
to my soul. Nothing changes.
At the thought of your eyes alone
I burn. Again and again.
And from the ashes at your feet
I rise, again and again.
From the beginnings of the last quarter
October 16, 2012
Kung paano hinahagod ng patak
ng bagong-panganak na hamog
ang tuktok upang tuntunin ang dulo;
mariin, ninanamnam ang bawat
damping nag-iiwan ng bakas;
bago tuluyang maubos
pagdating sa ugat,
mamarkahan ko ang daraanan
ng mga halik na kasingnipis ng silahis
ng unang sikat ng araw
sa pagbuka ng langit.
Saka ako sasanib sa putik.
Makikiisa sa pinagmumulan, kaibuturan
ng mga lihim ng pamumulaklak, pagbunga,
pagkalanta. Doon ako magtatago.
Yayakap ang katawan ko, basang-basa,
sa bukal ng iyong pag-usbong.
Punong-puno ng pangako,
kumakayat sa pananatili. Naghihintay.
Hanggang sa muling sunduin ng bukang-liwayway.
Lalapat sa kalupkop, sasalubong sa umaga.
Hinog at buo, muli tayong magtatagpo.
Pagbitak ng araw, doon tayo magkikita.
Doon tayo magkikita.
Doon tayo magkikita.
I write you into the night like this:
if Joni was singing beside me she would have already hurled on my bed, the case being constantly revisited. and the blinking cursor awarded the medal of honor for always giving in to my unwillingness to blink back. the line-cuts are non-existent where they should be because the spill of thoughts refuse to let them in. and when the foot couldn’t reach for the brakes, we speed forward farther. it’s getting harder to go back.
it could have gone into the style of Neruda channeling the moonbeam on the windowsill or tears that turn into oceans the way hearts are ripped apart by continental differences. But all I have is a love song gathering mold on my iPod and an online journal where I gather shame writing you into the night like this.
Others have absolutely less. And we have been so lucky to have found each other in the city. Your car neatly parked below the balcony I lean over to reach for some sense of the scenery. They have made us drunk and so unsatisfied. We walk past them who live off another breath if they be allowed. You don’t even hold my hand.
If you make me feel small it is not because you do not talk to me at the mark of the green light. It is because I realize I could not cut through you the way caged animals could. Although if you start believing in the cause of freeing Beluga whales then maybe there would be hope for you and me. And maybe we can skip fast food on our morning-after delivery.
We can cook and wash dishes and segregate our junk and leave our shoes under the couch and know the way in is through the door but not the way out. Look, outside on the next street they’re building another part of the city. There will be another window there, another girl held, another heart staring out. This is what feeling has cost me, nobody gets anything for free. So I write, and I don’t let the pen breathe. The next time the city knocks into my walls and tells me there is so much more to turn into that road for, I’ll write you in. I’ll write you in deep.
One right through the target. Bang.
the grayness of the morning and the cool drizzle conjures in me an excruciating desire to reach for that patch of your back hidden beneath your hair and run my fingers down to trace the line of your spine and find that crevice of your waist where my palm will rest and wait for your fingers to come and converge with mine
but you do not rest under these sheets with me
i have to be the one to go to you and place myself precisely at the curve of embrace your body opens for me on your bed
inside where you are, we exist to each other like comforts we cannot let go of, in this distance we are waiting for the other to express their longing hoping that one is not rejected, hoping for another night we chase to the break of dawn
we wake up in a…
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Universe teach me to keep my faith in your workings.
Ignite in me again the fascination for watching things fall the way they should, to have the will to open my palms and let the raindrops slide through my fingers.
Remind me again the story of the rainbow.
Put my heart at ease, let my soul know strength. Help me believe.
Throw me a bone, universe. While I can still catch it.
It’s almost eight. Today I woke up with an anticipated sense of calm. Like, coming from my dreams, there was no other way to feel upon facing the morning in this realm.
I am gaining a sense of bravery here. Talking about the way I feel in such exposure. But believe me when I say that this time I really didn’t know what the song meant. I just liked how it sounded and paid no attention to the words. I didn’t understand it. But after this morning, I wish I still didn’t.
This is deliberate, the act of stepping out from that shadow of a pseudonym nobody knows about. You will find these words duplicated in another backlit sheet. If you do find that, you must have probably deserved the privilege of access. Right now, not yet.
Right now, we maintain this distance. Let’s try to catch ourselves from stepping beyond the lines. While it is somewhere we’d like to be, it may not be something we need to destroy ourselves for.
Right now, I’ll write my stuff and listen to these songs. You, stay.
And if you no longer can, tiptoe quietly away. Because if I catch you drifting away, I might never let you go.
there is nothing to prompt this note. it is half past ten and yet it feels like the hour hasn’t moved past three AM. only the fan moves in the living room, whirring steadily. while i listen to a hipster playlist made for mornings like this by a stranger somewhere i’d like to meet someday. there are options to get up and eat or clean up the room or — just get the fuck up. but i’m still in bed, stuck.
somebody, please remind me how do i pick up myself from this. or, no, yeah, leave me alone.
another strange dream
i would like to revisit,
lost under the sheets.
under the blanket
there is a body missing,
under the pillow
fingers search for another,
that cannot be there.
the bed, a landscape
of plains, crevices, cliffs: vast.
we travel this way.
there’s a map somewhere,
find yourself searching for years
when you go to sleep.
the return ticket,
the cost of a memory,
brings you back: awake.
strange dream, you again,
always there. where will you be?
gone in the morning.
Don’t we all dwell on things serendipitous, paradoxical, ironic? We interpret signs, try to read between the lines, sometimes over-analyze. We hope to satisfy our most banal instincts and our impossible delusions. We dream. We make-believe. We also laugh and mock ourselves for it.
I could hear the laughter, you know. These backlit displays and protected profiles are not enough to temper the energy. It goes on and on and on.
Oh, and did you hear that? Could-have-been, should-have-done, probably-would, maybe-if, guess-so, guess-not, guess-what, will-you-ever, I-would-never, someday-perhaps, perhaps-perhaps. Here is a list we should avoid.
Do you know what ‘uncanny’ means?
Yeah? Strange. I thought so too.
In a letter I wrote to a friend, I talk about how the concept of emptiness gives such a negative connotation to the actual beginning of things. The reason why Nothing and Absence is often associated with an agonizing sense of lack is because too much emphasis is given on What Should Be There and Presence. If only we learned to take things as they are, we would be able to overcome Loss painlessly precisely because Loss as a concept would cease to exist in itself.
There was nothing to lose to begin with because there was only Nothing in the beginning.
The song is an appendage to the thought. It is not the point of the post but maybe necessary to the mood and feeling. It could stand on its own, it can also be done without.
The song sounds so delightfully painful, it makes me want to dance and do headstands. But for who? 😛