balcony.

us kissing in the darkness of a theater
slipping from the fiction playing in front of us,
sliding into the reality of the heat
that the absence of light was giving us
as Hannibal Lecter's voice lost its chill
as the violence on screen meant nothing
and vanished in the thunder of blood
running through us
running us through
then
we left
before the credits went and told
how everything was an illusion,
and before the darkness revealed.

we left
and fled into our reality
spontaneous and true
physical and warm.

may is a hurting month.

Like before, like no other else and like nothing can ever be, will ever be.

The rains that fall are double edged and soothes in remembrance but then also leaves you so deeply bemired and bleeding that there is no thought possible, but they are better than the expanse of heat and strangeness that is Manila, though they don't fall every day.

Walking on the way to the bus stop, as dead dry grass gets blown in my path, their scent hits me some moments later and there is a strange realization that my mind has forgotten about this month, but my body hasn't.

As I look on, at the few days that are left for this month, despite everything it means, I am more than a bit reluctant to see it go. And I admit, I would want it to last a bit longer; when hope at this time produces emotions that are not exactly warm and fuzzy; because in fact it borders more on the bleaker and the blacker and biler side of the four humors. It is also summer and there is no escape when sleep is uneasy and shallow, and the dreams vivid, and real until you wake up, taking so long to fade and they become a solid memory instead of an impossible reality.

In those dreams, your scent is true, and lingers even as I wake alone in a bed for one, and sleep once past cannot easily be embraced again. This is May, and it is ending, and there never is another instance for recognizing that time is passing... that after living for so long finally grasp how time really works, and that there is no loophole, and it cannot be fooled.

Perhaps May might bleed into June, perhaps I would get to miss you more as the months go on.

where do we go from here.

You just told me it would take a little silence. for now. with no apparent hint of a consequence within a timeframe and nary a clue if that statement was already intimate with forever. or perhaps I just didn't understand then. I don't know if gave in too soon, and used logic to decide. But I guessed not, only wanting you to be beautiful and I did not want rain in your face. Not to trouble, not to disturb and to just let you be. Even if I wanted your embrace. At that time.
And at this time. And
Everyday now.
And mostly at night. And just after I come home from work.

I do understand, my mind does. Entirely. My mind, my mind does...
But the other part though surreal is even more real, and only wants you.

I just have been to the cold and back again; and being there I still kept crossing out the passing days, keeping time, keeping count, that... that it would mean my life if I didn't; if I didn't keep the faith; if I didn't think slash feel about you.

And that is the easy part, mostly effortless. It was stepping on the brakes that was problematic.

Now, I am all twisted up as I can ever be.
and even just reading the wiki summary of the The Science of Sleep can make me cry.

dream catcher.

perhaps you fart whole galaxies
a whole slew of star systems
every time, after every meal
of someone else's dreams;
of dreams fed nightly
on a steady diet of falling stars
and fervent wishes,
of imaginations now slowly
measured by logic and reason.

no need for a fork, or a knife
to carve, to cut them in manageable pieces.
whole, they are eaten whole
and the sound that they make as they...
as they go in your darkness
cannot be described
cannot be painted
and they light up like fireworks
as they bravely go on their last hurrah
but only another feast for you.

love me like a monster.

You asked me to do another one of those impossible things, and I said a reluctant yes, with no intention of doing whatsoever what you asked, even if I could help it.
Stop worrying about me.
I mean how could I... when this kind of things concerning you is like breathing, involuntary and needed to live.
Stop looking at me.
I know what you meant by saying these things, and besides I also know the reasons why you continually say them almost as an afterthought, but your voice trembles ever so slightly, almost imperciptible that sometimes I think it's all in my mind. Then you turn away, as I continue go on looking.
Stop thinking about me.
When sometimes it's all I have; and when, during my days off it's all I do. Lack of sleep is also beautiful sometimes.

I wonder if you say these things because sometimes you have nothing else to say. I know I have those kind of moments too. Or perhaps it is just that mild kind of exasperation, with things that we sometimes imagine to be possible.

These are just the everyday things, everyday affairs that take me back and the daily order of
circumstances that I cannot find my way out of, and I'd always want to be lost, always; while I'm in the longest meantime that you are not here. Shampoo scent and all. Not here. At All.

I sometimes I take a lot coffee breaks but not for the coffee. Restrooms are okay too, more so during graveyard shifts and there is small window there where I can see the darkness and between the neon and the few cars wandering below, I wonder where the horizon ends or where the sky begins. Then it all comes back to you as I see my reflection on the double glass window, hazy in the dim light of the restroom.

Stop being this way.
Don't you see, it's futile; besides your smile after is always a dead giveaway.

You are like the smell of cotton candy that has permanently stuck in my memory, I guess.