Dahil minsan kitang minahal

hindi ko magagawang talikuran ang mga alaala

subalit sisimulan ko ang maingat na paghahakbang

palayo sa iyo

kakalimutan ka ng unti-unti

at sa pagkawala ko ng tuluyan

hindi mo na ako maaring balikan

marahil mananatili bilang huling habilin ang tulang ito;

kumakatawan sa mga araw 

na sa panaginip na lamang muling masisilayan.

---

Hello and goodbye.

Red Flags

uttering her name you fell completely
unaware how the sonant curved into a warning
planting a seed of sadness in your heart
only to blossom majestically

its thirst quenched with tears ---
tendrils enveloping the organ
powerless to contain the burgeoning
darkness within

like a flock of birds with fractured wings
struggling, beating mercilessly
through your cage of blood and bone
poised for flight

in the stillness of the night.



---
Night terrors are the pits.

Mula sa Musa

Para sa Manunulat --- 

Isang malalim na buntong hininga ang sagot ko sa pag-agos ng mga salita mula sa iyong pluma.

Dahil sa unti-unting dumudulas ang mga sandali, parang hindi ko kayang pasanin ang kalungkutang mararamdaman ko kung sakaling dumating ang araw na hindi na ang aking anino ang lililim sa katawan mong magbibigay-buhay sa isang tula.

Natatakot ako na sa bawat indayog ng [mga] buwan dala nito ang mga alaala na ulap na lamang ang nilalaman.

Natatakot ako na hindi na maaari ang mabagal na paglalakbay sa bawat araw sa kagustuhang bawasan ang lawak nitong distansya sa ating pagitan.

Nababalutan ng takot itong aking pag-amin na nais kitang mahalin — sapagkat 

anong sagot 

            ang maisusukli mo 

                                    sa akin?

---

Muted gestures and imaginings. Often it is the writer who captures the words behind beauty and inspiration, bottles up the emotions, and unleashes them on the page. Do you ever wonder -- what of the muse? 

---

True to my editorial colors. Original scribbles from The In-between. Because I'm bored and would like to put the 'use' in amused. Hehe.

True or False

Directions:

Write T if the statement is True and F if the statement is False.
Fine, we'll throw in Maybe in the picture. So that's an M.
Answer as truthfully as you can. No second-guessing; no erasures.

Same shit, different package sorrows are. Agree or disagree?

________ 1. Some days you really believe the world is unkind when What You Can Do is different from What Will and Can Happen. And so you knock on all pieces of wood you can.

________ 2. Things they say suddenly speak to you, i.e., *Comma, n.: Is this the effect we have on each other, the power to force a pause, but not to end the sentence? Or **Songs are as sad as the listener.

________ 3. You're not supposed to say anything. So you write something like this. Or hold her name and a vestige of her face between your palms, holding it for the longest time until the most opportune moment.

________ 4. Believing you can tell the world to behave, owning the vast expanse of the Universe, and deserving every ounce of happiness --- only to be tied down by invisible strings reminding you that above all else, you're human.

________ 5. You hate getting all hot and bothered. For nothing.

________ 6. It's called a triage. You believe in annihilating things, people and feelings for what you perceive to be the greater good. Some nights, you worry --- what do you know, really?

________ 7. You give in to the memories and smile, you silly twit. But you know there really is no escaping the memories. And they give you the sweetest smiles. So what the hell. Revel.

________ 8. You want to get drunk. Again. Oh, and not necessarily to feel a little love.

________ 9. When sleeping gives you the break you need but never the answers you seek.

________ 10. You kind of want to hold her hand or poke her. Just to feel she's close. Just to make sure she's near. Just to be sure of her.


---
How did you do?


---
*David Levithan, The Lover's Dictionary on Twitter
**Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Got a kick out of this poem, et. al.

She doesn't know, but I know
Allen B. Samsuya, Anthuluge ~ Easy Does It

She doesn’t know but I know

how she still has the hots for me —

How she keeps her hair kempt

and smelling of warm gin

and citrus so she’s sure

she intoxicates me

despite the distance she claims

to have between us. And how

she wants me to take her hard

against something, a wall perhaps,

or a closet, or a king-sized bed.

This, I can tell by the way she walks

away — the shape love takes

when nurtured in secrecy poised

on the curve of her waist.

But she walks away, anyway.

Being writer-ly:

Inspirations [sort of] notwithstanding, I've been trying to write more. Experimenting with languages and dialects to see where I'm most comfortable.

Current assessment: A toss-up between Filipino and English.

Loving the challenge I get from writing a tula and at the same time, playing around with length in English is giving a hands-clasped-behind-the-head satisfied feeling. Sadly, something erotic doesn't this way come. It seems being sensual is better done than written about (but this is just me).


Sometimes wishing I can translate to the sound of letters how my body curves at your touch, how a sigh slips from my lips at your caress, and how we dance to the edge of the world and explode midst a slew of stars...

that sort of thing.

Life, lately:

Been feeling a bit under the weather. The mad, mad combination of sun and rain and gloriously polluted Ayala has taken its toll on little ol' me. Work is something else, too. Physiology will buckle somehow when caught smack in the middle of shitstorm season. And so we sigh, roll up our sleeves and get to work (nonetheless).

Looking forward to the rainbow this June. A 45-minute plane ride will usher my feet back to Iloilo for a week of celebrating birthdays, meeting up with friends, and playing with my rottweiler Pucci. Some alcohol-filled night-out or two is also in the works. Perhaps, I can squeeze in a day at the beach if I'm lucky.

Oh, yeah.

Atin Ang Gabi

Ikaw, ako,

kape at kuwento.

Dala ng magkaugnay na hapdi

itong higpit ng pagsalubong sa sandali.

Ito ang naging simula:

Minsan tayo ay tumigil sa paggalaw

at nanatili sa iisang lugar.

Hinayaan ang banggaan ng mga kapalarang iba-iba ang tangan.

Bumalik tayo sa nagdaang panahon.

Ikaw at ako, sila --- ang pinagsaluhan.

Binilang ang araw ng pagsasama

nang sabay tapon sa mga panghihinayang.

Ipinaaalala sa atin na wala na rin namang silbi

ang pag-inda sa lungkot na minsan nilang dala.

Tiyak ang paglaho ng kung anong bahid ng alinlangan.

Hindi natin sila kailangan.

At naganap ang hindi inaasahan: Napunit ang langit

sa pagsiklab ng sandali.

Ating ipinagdiwang itong minsang pagtatagpo

sa pinakamahabang gabi.

Ngunit walang katiyakan

itong pananatili ng mga sandali,

bagamat magkatabi at masaya

hanggang sa tahimik na pag-uwi.

Sa ngayon nababalutan ng pag-unawa itong pagsasama.

Isinantabi sa kaloob-loobang sulok ang pananabik.

Maselan ang pagbitaw sa mga salita.

Walang nangangako sa takot na walang maaako.

Hanggang sa muli,

mananatili sa kalagitnaan itong tagpo.

Di tiyak ang pagpapatuloy o pagtatapos

ng ating kuwento.

The Story of Remembrance

1

is the ceaseless attempt to forget.

2

When all that is left is the sound of wanting ---

the soft whisper of loneliness

aching to be spun into song.

Your name escapes from my parched lips;

a sigh barely heard for it has been too long,

far too long.

I give it another try.

Chords for want of stronger sound

straining.

I must utter your name

so there will be no forgetting.

3

On days when the past knocks on my front door like an old friend, I do not quite know how to react. Or if I want to welcome it at all.

But it comes bearing gifts; and almost always, I cannot resist. How can I when they come in such beautiful, ornate boxes? And when, deep inside, I am hoping, encased in perhaps an intricate decoupage of gold, green and silver, I will uncover You?

4

Today I stand before the place where I met you.

My hands are formed into cups nestling the box I have chosen.

This box: striking in its beauty feels oddly heavy in my hands,

its weight shooting daggers of hope in my heart.

I am itching to open the box, anticipating our reunion.

Already my mind is racing ---

How are you? Do you remember me? What do you remember?

Tell me, tell me.

In my haste, I almost didn’t hear the moon.

Its mellifluous voice, mocking, calling me foolish

for believing too much,

for believing in so many things.  

5

It is said that dust is formed from our skins and that if we stay in one place for a long time, an eventual mound of dust shall have formed at our feet.

If this is true, and if by some unfortunate circumstance, the wind comes our way, what will become of us? Particles in the wind, we spin away from each other bearing versions of our story. Away and away, the distance erecting walls between us. What once was ours shall have become yours and mine.

Open it, said the moon. And I oblige.

Nothing.

Save for a thin coating of dust.

I waited too long, I told the moon.

6

Dust in the wind. You and I.

If so be the case, do we still hold the right to ourselves? Do we not become properties of the wind --- our story becoming the wind’s own?

7

The moon was witness to our story and its beginnings. And she tells me in dulcet tones that with each of her motions mapping our days apart, underscoring the absence of sight and sound and touch, a memory is taken away.

The smoke wafting from your half-opened lips, the color of the night, the feel of your palms on the small of my back as you steered me to our spot by a palm tree. Or was it a potted plant?

See how the details are easily forgotten? The moon whispers.

8

I empty the contents of the box into my hands but I am not careful enough.

You slip easily between the slits of my fingers to be blown away by the wind.

9

What am I to make of this?

It seems so unfair when all I want is to talk to you so desperately.

And so I whisper stories of my day to the wind hoping that somehow it gets to you. 

Who are you, Woman?

I do not know the woman

I only know of this ---

She is the hand resting lightly on my shoulder,

becoming the language no longer needing

the soft swish of letters.

She is the song that lulls me into a dream,

where upon waking, I find the sky is mine for the taking.

She is the rain masking my tears,

leaving a trail of kisses as I take back

my heart in need of mending.

She is the words I weave into a poem

bespoke of courage and strength.

She is love forged between weak links,

supped over broken phone lines and

hurried text messages.

She is my mother, the woman I do not know.

Save for her beauty, her serene acceptance

of the daughter who will not have become her.

I must surrender what little I know of her

what little I understand,

when what we have

is the absence of sight.

And what we try to do

is fill the void with sounds

of bodies being forced to injure/endure

shared time and space apart.

----

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama. I may not say this as often as the gods or you or me would like but you know I love you, right? Oh, and I'm sorry if I do not answer back after a particularly horrid night at the office. It kills me, you know, how to the ladies I love/particularly like I am so available but to you... Shame on me. I am working on it, Mama. I am. Because all this time --- It's been always you and me.