It was you, same lover
Stretching past 6ams with me
The hiccups of the clouds
witnessing the tango of our arms
above my little head, there was
your breath, the soundtrack of
my first hallucinations
your smell, the movie to begin
this weekend’s marathon
below the soles of your feet
are the cream-colored walls of my room
what a pleasant breakfast
your kiss on my forehead
and all the way below.
*This is inspired by “Umiihip ng pulang hangin ang langit” from Pedantic Pedestrians II
And there she was, eating on the possibility that tomorrow, she will be easier to handle, easier to walk with, easier to go along with. There is nothing special in her childhood. Everyone knows Daddy Long Legs and Pacman and Battle City and Sailor Moon and Nokia 3210s. She is yet to know how to cook seemingly complex things like kare-kare, she is yet to read David Foster Wallace, she is yet to shake hands with Mookie Katigbak. Yet: people find it hard to come with her, come to her, observe the skins on her mouth and gaze at her innermost doubtfulness.
Someone writes a letter to her, but would keep it forever in her big box of unforwarded letters. She has read Zizek perhaps, saying that the unsent letter is the best letter, the most faithful letter, for in the act of not sending the letter, it maintained its original message, untainted by the receivers’ likely misreadings, or overreadings.
Someone else said he wanted her, but was discouraged because “she knows too much and he cannot keep up with her” and that “she likes someone else.” What if, what if. She just knows how to read inside jeepneys; she just knows how to nab a Beckett or a Burroughs without paying too much;
(Burroughs is buried deep on the ocean; Beckett is still beckoning Godot and Molloy)
He thought he saw me.
Do not fade like him.
she just knows how to look at herself in the mirror and sometimes see the future of Philippine poetry; she just knows how to drink coffee stolidly and seemingly without care but actually ruminating on the possibility of interaction; she just knows some Greek thought and european landmarks; she just knows she cannot know herself. Even in the torpor of energetic chaoses in Vienna.
Get all the more lost here.
And when she suspire for another person’s breath and cannot have it right away, she just knows how to write and make-believe. She knows that beliefs are cheap, and more than anything else, there should be faith.