Sins are not us.


You just have to understand that in the anatomy of sin, there was you, there was you all over; in every crevice, every knack, every fidgeting bone marrow, every rickety cell, every thinning hairline, every languishing penis, every pinking clitoris, every snide of a bone, every tanning skin, there, was, you.

It was September holy 17 — we were nearing  exhaustion, we were raining with confidence in a night that has seemed too young for us. We can see all the vehicles passing by the road, where we also stood with each other, side by side, your face smelling the air just above my head. But can all the people riding the vehicles see us? Where were we really? They called the place Marcos Highway. Perhaps we wanted to call it ours, perhaps we wanted to call it the boulevard of sacred desires.

We won’t kiss. We won’t, we just cannot. There lies the sin. We violated what we truly wanted, what we truly wanted. All sin was in every corner of your neck, all sin was in the slenderness of my fingers. We retire in the face of the night perhaps muttering all the longer prayers, forgive us holy mother, we violated our desires.

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To brood


We are really worrisome kids, worrisome kids.

We spend sundays waiting for time to slip away and introduce to us something new, that will never come anyway, nothing comes when we wait. We do not wait for things to happen, we make things happen.

This, and more. In a waiting game sunday, in far-fetched anxiety over turning twenty very soon, very soon if calendars do not connive with all the lies.

On a sunday, someone said to me, check you email, someone is addressing you, partly, in an essay. And so I did as told, and retrospection became inevitable.

We idealize the past, we idealize the past — as the calcified thing where everything was done and was finally stable and most painfully, gone. Especially when now is nothing but a big lump of waywardness, denied directionlessness. This is not the trauma of teenagehood termination. This is the wariness, the dramatized finicky attitude towards beginnings. Especially when, especially when everything is encountered alone.

Calendars be damned, but please lead me to a peaceful July, a placating August, an intoxicating September, and yes, a dream-fulfilling October. We can wait. We can do things. See you on the roads.

Do not die at thirty, you pimple-faced


there is a piece of amethyst here

You have to get through what I would like to communicate. As always, this could not come crystal-clear to you; we can do nothing else but settle at what comes to us.

We are not wayward lovers, but sometimes, even though I do not want to guess that way, I guess we are falling down on Dimalanta’s words, “hapless lovers” Because. Because, for instance now, we are distant not only with our bodies but with what we intend for us, what we wish for us, what we work for us.

Soon, someone will say sorry, for being unable to stick with the other’s tongue, for choosing to fly away and search for new songs and new circles, for being not enough to contain what the others seem to intently profess.

Soon. Could not be happening, but it always threaten at the distance, hovering like a skylark forebodes a storm. I want to believe I will do things to keep the skylark away, and to cover your youth when the storm takes away all your sense of security. Yes, we are young, very right of you to say. But I will keep this. I want. to. really. believe. we. we will.