Climate

The rain has stopped but the leaves drop its tears as the wind continues to sway
The clouds are crawling in threads, pale and faded with their nimbus rags
The sky no longer scratches to see for the pitch has loosened its black
Below, I stand still, my skin shivering as its hairs dance slowly with a rhythm unknown


The worst is over, the spirits whisper without words of thunder
The silence turns into howling, pleading and persisting, but the plague lingers
The leaves continue to shed as I hear their cries, covert yet bursting
I look up and as my gaze singles out a tiny ball of cloud, a leaf decides to let go


The water once on the leaf's palm drops and finds my eye, precisely and painfully
I blink -- once, twice and more than thrice -- and I blink again
Yet and yet, the water stays unmoved as my head remains tilting against the void
Then, I bow. The water slowly leaves as it rubs my cheeks, hesitantly and fearfully


The water stops on my chin as if dropping will be the end of it
After all, though it has come from above -- from anything but me -- its entirety has been mine
It has entered my eye and has left it as if it is a tear I have succumbed
Then, drop, drop, drop. Drop. The water lays on the ground: spilled and scattered


The spirits shriek
And the howling grows
I feel my mouth twitching
And my eyes wailing

Hide & Seek

Close your tired eyes
Rub your cheeks with your cold palms
Face the darkness behind me
Deafen me with your voice of numbers

I shall scamper away
With the sprain you caused
I shall, I shall

Stand beside your deceitful tree
Those branches, wider and wider
Those leaves, thousands and thousands
Won't you ever cease counting?

I shall scamper away
With the sprain I caused
I shall, I shall

Where are we? The hearts beat but the mouths are stifled
Our fingers pierce the wind but the void is sultry
In the gray, I know you have shown up again
Find me for I, too, am seeking for you

I shall not scamper away
With the sprain we caused
I shall not, I shall not
And that you know, you know.

1.1.11

The waiting was short-lived.
The longing was incessant.
The feeling was undeniable.
Further and further, we went down.
Panting and panting.
Then, release.

Pitch black turned red.
Then, red to green. And green to yellow.
Melancholy, rage, desire and then, illumination.
The glare was blinding.
Further and further, the irises withered.
Falling and falling.
Then, drop.

New sight.
New pair.

New day.
New year.

New nothing.
New everything.

New you.
New me.

New us.

Freight

Late dusk. Time of departure was undisclosed.
The train's hiss declined as the fog came closer down.
As I looked at the few passengers, I bowed.
My luggage was as diffident as their looks.

And heavy.

The letters.
The post-its.
The paper bags.
The movie tickets.
The receipts.
The bus coupons.
The books.
The pictures.
The small boxes.
Even the torn papers.

Dismal, static and unresponsive.

...And the memory.
And the nostalgia.
And the word.

Heavy. Heavy. Heavy...

Retreating, yielding and courting...
The battle. The love. The daughter of demise.

The train's hiss halted.

The burden.
The heft.
The monster.
The monster.
The monster.

Heavy.

Hours passed. As I handed over my luggage, I stared at it.
Its threads were loose and the wrinkles of its bygone bulk were dreary.
The fogs had finally settled over the station. Dawn was coming.
The once unerring void was now too full for any, for any more.
It was time to go. Time of departure.

The train hissed loudly.

It was morning.
Light, finally.

Light.

Fall

Like a leaf on an autumn day, I drop helplessly.
The branch is sturdy but, its hold is weak.
Pale yellow, thirsty and withered, the leaf floats with no sound.
Only the wind -- so gentle yet so determined -- carries it downwards... whispering, whispering muteness that deafens me.
Summer is over.

As I watch the sky -- once so light -- grow farther, I remember the warmth. The warmth that was summer. The warmth that was.
Pale brown, steady and stoic, the branch remains with no restraint.
Only the cold -- imminent and austere -- counters its apathy... bursting, bursting muteness that deafens me.
Summer is over.

To the heap of the heartless and the dead I come closer.
Silently, I join them. Still, silence knows not only assent.
Pale, pale and pale, I lay with neither sound nor restraint.
Only the crease of my skin -- sore and unrelenting -- looks up... crying, crying muteness that deafens him.
Summer is over.

The Weatherman

Tonight, I have shed rain -- inadvertently, incessantly and indifferently. It has flowed like torrents that my breathing has alternately cracked and faltered. I have never had an outpouring since that time too olden to be remembered.

Yet, with the shade that has sustained its hold and has then altered my perceived frailty, my ducts have slowly cleared.

Your presence -- undeniable and never really gone -- has tamed the nimbus.

The rain has stopped.

Finally, clear skies are upon us.
Once again....
Once again.

Stuck

I miss the apathy.
The chaos.
The speed.
The insomnia.

I miss you, Manila.

I miss your pain.

But, I need to miss you more.