How many times have we gone South
with the rest of the flock?
The grains were more than enough
for everyone but we found ourselves alone
even before winter ended.

We'd rather stay cold
then be left alone in the sun.

One day we'll find ourselves
carried by a wind
that's stronger than the both of us.
I’ll hold your hand and tell you
how good it feels to fly.
 

Ball Game
Let’s start the ball rolling.
I’ll throw it from my end
and you catch it from yours.
Or miss, or throw it back at my face,
it doesn’t matter.
So long as it gets to you.

As long as it doesn’t bounce from
the posts in between,
causing cracks on floors
and painted walls,
already fading from the breeze
of balls flying past.

If you want,
you can take a shot
from the other side of the court.
Who knows, you might just make it.

I’ll raise my hands and clap for you,
big shot girl,
for always having the right moves.
 

Camphor
The mint is kicking in.
It attempts to take away
the stale air of wanting.

Ground into various contortions
by teeth aching flesh to be still,
it distracts but does not satisfy
the hunger for other
textures pungent tastes,
my tongue left cool and twisting.

We suck and chew
on objects to forget
about our mouths
dry and wanting.
 

Commute
The light from the window
of the FermEx bus
careening through the 
EDSA-Ayala flyover
is amber through my lenses
positioned to hide 
how I was up all night
thinking about you.

And the way  your eyes shine
when you tell me stories of
oh
never mind.

I rest my head back on the 
seat shiny from another greasy face
having so much more peace in their travails.

I want to run to you. 
 

Feminine Hygiene
It doesn’t help,
here I am chafing
from over or under
use.

I wash, hoping to douse
careful not to douche
away the flavors
I want to greet you with.

I wipe
so as not to drench the fabric
softly to keep the tissues moist
for your arrival.
 

Sharp & Flat
Maybe it struck a chord
on an old piano whose strings
have gone loose 
needing tuning.

Otherwise the key 
would have been pressed,
heard then lost,
not like this
disrupting dust
and rusting.

The pedals don’t work,
I tried to peek inside to see
what was wrong,
until I gave up and sat there
wishing for the tuner to arrive.
 

Storymaker
You are the story unfolding
and I am the ball
in the tip
of the pen
revolving.

The ink is my blood
and I roll in it,
bathe in it,
like words finding their way
onto your pages 
aching denouement.

I will trace the curve
of each letter like
the mounds of your flesh
with my tongue
dripping ink, blood
and fairy tales left
unspoken.