I missed you all day Sunday.

I went out, looking for stars at past three in the morning, beneath a light drizzle slowly changing to a soft rain. I went looking in between the dark gaps showing through the orangey clouds of Manila. I went looking for stars and grew desperate finding none. I stood for a long time under the quiet growing rain intently staring upward, in my boxers and white undershirt, getting cold but not minding the slow drench. I was saying your name over and over, a silent chant, a hushed mantra of a soundless plea for stars.

As I implored the skies for even just a brief sight of a single star, I thought about you sleeping in the cold, in the dark and I wanted to run my fingers across your face without ever waking you, I wanted to look at you, and wonder if you were dreaming, I wanted to watch you breathing in, breathing out, in and out, in and out and lose myself in the subtle rise and fall of your chest. I wanted to hold your hand as you lay there resting, and remember all the silent almost secret movements you make when you sleep. I wanted to watch the sublime reason for how I am now, sleep.

Then in a fleeting gesture of consideration, a single star shone brightly for a few seconds and then winked out again, covered by the clouds, gone as fast as it came into view, for the few seconds that it was allowed. Feeling the cold, I smiled and said a silent thank you, knowing I have said goodnight and the other whispered endearments you will now also hear in your dream.

Before going in and thinking about sleep, I looked at the clouds and the dark sky of morning and imagined the stars that were there and knew that were there and heard myself tunelessly singing the few lines from the chorus of a 311 song, that Robert Smith first sang years ago.

Yes, dear, always. Always.