Inhale. Exhale.

Let wander your fingers around my body.

Let it track the fields of warm ground,

or your palms caress on bulges;

on mountains, blind curves, and tips.

(Inhale. Exhale—the air you breathe from mine.

To mine, from yours.)

Evade the deepest cave

where warmth and moisture tame your wildness.

Be content with its sense of safety

like shelter—stay there.

You may marvel the tree which would only

grow with your nurturing hand; then,

follow the furrows

that leads you down to its roots.

(Inhale. Exhale—I taste what

you breathe out. Taste

from mine.)

Touch every inch and corner of me

like a pilgrim would sin for a god.

Choose what to devour, or what to leave.

And if so you would go,

you have taken a part of me.

Dear Silence,

Thanks for keeping me company for the past seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months. With you, I’m starting to appreciate the world around me again, or the little things, I didn’t notice, exist. Perhaps, one of these things is the peanut stall that had been beside the waiting shed where I would wait for a ride home.

Thanks for reminding me that I live in a very big world…and that I’m just a fleck of dust from miles away–from space. It has always been this big. I guess when a person gets alone, the world becomes bigger and bigger, and it fears me that it will devour me someday, and I’d get lost inside it. The busy streets are suddenly wide, the thick seas of people in malls are easier to swim through, and building walls seem to have moved apart. I could get lost in wide spaces. I somehow neglected the fact that this world has been revolving since I started revolving around another world–the kind of world where I can’t live in.

I can never thank you enough, Silence. Stay with me for a while. I need to learn more, and see better.





the calendar pages

cannot speak enough

of my longing,

but the flowers


exhaling away their

last ounce of color

as they crumble on the ground.

The cold breeze

who replaced you

can never imitate

the manner your fingers

journey my skin,

or emulate

your warmth

that penetrated my pores.

Even the sun

can only pierce his light

through my eyelids,

but he can never

bury his lips

like you did (with yours)

to mine,

only to awaken me.

Yet I will go back

to the calendar, Love—to the numbers

printed in blues and reds;

to the days, months, and years

that cannot speak of my longing.

So I would not fault

the flowers, the breeze, and the sun

of your absence.

In My Sleep

I will retire
like the sun would leave
the horizon
below my iris.

my eyes shine no more.
The vast blanket
under my brows
will shade black
upon my sight.
in darkness
I’ll see and hold you
nothing like
when I am awake.


To where the sun would run into
the sunflowers, too, face.
So much like reaching into heavens,
and not, in return, embraced.
Much as the scene
that meets the eyes,
which eyes linger to stare.
Much like the moon
that chases the shadows
against the moonlit flare.
Always it would follow
but never meant to hold.
Only, it witnesses the rays;
and mimics the sun’s gold.


My Blues, An Ocean

I’m lost.
I’m falling.
My screams
are muffled–
they’re trapped
inside my head.
I’m down.
More than six feet.
I have not landed yet
but I’m breaking.
I’m unreachable.
One has to dive
to get lost
to find me,
so he can gather
my fragments
slowly scattering
beneath the abyss.
Save me.
Swim me…away
from my blues.
My blues
are liquid
as the ocean.
Nothing’s there
to hold on to.
They’re deep
and undiscovered.
I drowned within it.



You Are…

the lump in my throat;
the furrows between my brows;
the throbbing heat inside my chest;
the sweat on my palms;
the muffle in my ears;
the trails of tears on my cheeks;
the mess on my hair;
the wrinkles below my eyes;
the crumples on my sheets and pillows;
the taut muscles on the sides of my lips;
the nostalgia of rivers, bridges, and photographs;
the whispers in my head;
the loss of my words;
the emptiness of my thoughts;
the silence in my room;
the loneliness in the jeepney stop;
the kiss I would hardly forget;
the chance I cannot have.




On the other side of the world
someone’s hurting.
He’s hurting,
and words
are his only allies;
but his words are heavy, dark, and loud
like thunders–they resonate
not only at one place
but places
he does not know they can reach.
And I,
on this other half of the world
keeps still–quiet
I don’t want to spread thunders
like he does,
because if I do
my thunders would be louder than his

and he will never forget their echoes.​

One Night Stand

The smile and the stare
The touch and the kiss
The darkness and sheets
Caress of your lips
The heat and the sweat
The whispers and moans
The hard and the soft
The skin and the bones
The you and the I
The downs and the highs
The we and the us
The truth and the lie
The stranger; the time
Your world and my own
The meet and collide
The stay and let go

Now, I’m all alone.