Like Coldness

An afternoon without sun,
like coldness
warming your skin
in an open pier,

and your smile-
sweet as sweet,
a tease of your lips,
a constant reminder

with each memory.

Setsuko

(after watching Isao Takahata's Grave of Fireflies for the 10th time)





as bombs hum their lullaby-



you are there, in the dark,

alone.



sucking on marbles like

sakuma drops,



your eyes sunken not with

hunger but with longing.



above a hill, Seita catches

his breath wondering if you're safe,



as bombs hum their lullaby.

Balicaoao

coldness of air embraces us
with fireflies watching in front,
resembling the random flickers
from the streetlights of Kabankalan.

the coldness warms us
like old conversations,
over bottles of
Red Horse Beer and chicken skin.

above us-
the same stars puncture the sky
as if rewinding scenes of
friendship, regrets, and love.

minutes before the pta.tay-tay blues

the warmth of the afternoon sun
gives rhythm to the dance
of five peso coins in the dashboard
while you find comfort against
the newly upholstered leather seat
of a two month old L-300.
flashes after flashes,
thoughts clouded your mind
as if mimicking the angry blow
of dust from the unfinished road
widening project and stained patches
of your black backpack.


you always anticipate this phase
but before dusk you were
expecting something new,
aside from sadness.

Tourniquet

i remember how it was
and your steady grip
that tightens with
every moment
of fear or happiness.
you even said
that plain understanding
and compromise
will do the trick
and all of this
is nothing but
temporary compression.
but then i defer
with fear
because your grip
proves you wrong.

***
…and in the end we choose
to let it go like the view
of a prominent vein without
the pressure of tourniquet