june will bleed into august.

I remember a promise attached with this coming month, spoken in a fever and welcomed in the dark, and later written down; perhaps more to feel the words forming and becoming real rather than as an afterthought. As fervid as these promises go, it has been ages since, since the words of those promise were spoken, and not repeated again. Lately, they sometimes repeat in my mind; chantlike, fading in and out, and without any apparent mnemonic to remind me. There are some early mornings when I wake up hours before I am supposed to wake and I hear the words again; and after that I don't get to sleep again. I also end up writing most always, just to take the edge off. It helps a little, but the words will stay with me for the rest of the day after that.

I wonder if the past weeks were part of a cycle I was once familiar with, intimate even to the point of calling it my life. Perhaps I haven't just been somewhere familiar lately, even if some of the places I had been to were comforting; by comforting I meant those places reminded me of something familiar, of somewhere familiar, and evoked some sense of a happier time or even just something to that effect.

Now, it's only a few hours before August, before I start crossing out the 31 days, then the months will become years again. I have forgotten about July already. I sometimes imagine it is still June.

5.

1. To see you walking in near dark, in that short distance between your house and the highway, hearing your footfalls along with the wind coming in from the fields in a cool singsong whisper; you, under the light of a billion stars and the light from the lampposts.

2. To hear you talk when I am not one you're talking to but know that I'm listening; a welcome intruder, an aural voyeur and you smile at me invisibly, I smile in return, sharing secrets in our minds and conversing in hushed silences and breaths.

3.To taste you, in a surprising return to memories of some distant summer and those lulls during rainshowers that we watched fall in watery clamor.

4. To smell your hair during the late afternoon when we are resting and just watching the grass grow shadows and as the skies go psychedelic with indigo and crimson fading into pink, this is when the scent of your shampoo is almost a memory and you are everywhere inside me as I inhale and watch you, tired and longing for something else beyond tiredness, as your grin suggests and you embrace my upper arm as if for balance.

5. To feel your touch again, your fingers trailing secret silent paths across my face and down to my neck then I also make my own spontaneous map with my fingers on your face and arms as we become cartographers of our bodies and deem ourselves rediscovered and found again.

journals.

because I have rediscovered writing on paper again, even when my fingers can hardly keep up with my thoughts, with my internal arguments and flashbacks.
because ctrl+z isn't possible with paper, because it doesn't care about misspelled words, because even by candlelight it is possible.
and it is one of the only few true moments that I can be with myself.

but I always find myself straying to the digital...

EADGBE.

I find you in songs these days
taking some of the words for my own,
reading them as oracles
as portents long gone,
long come true
and as echoes
of a dream
made real
and they keep playing
playing in my mind
with an aftertaste of you
from every verse
to the chorus
the lyrics trip lightly on my mind
and continue on playing
right through the seconds
before sleep
that upon waking
I press play again,
and repeat
and find you
smiling
in between
the opening riffs of our songs.

pungaw.

sa mga mortugong pagmati
na nagkasurupugan, na pigsusuruway ang hiling
ta kung ano man na rason kang pagmati na bagul na daa,
na pirmi na lang nagkakairinot ang mga taon saka mga dominggo
sa pag agi, sa pag sangli kaya dagos pigtatarakig na
sa lipot kang rayo sagkod mga ngirit
asin urulay sa tahaw kang pagpangudto,
na may tarom ng kaibanan, kang mga pagmawot
na pigtatarago na lang siring kang raot na alahas.

mortugo, mortugo daang pagkamoot
na tinutubuan na ning mga ugat kang mga tanom,
na dai man mapundo sa pagtalubo asin pagtahob
sa pagkamoot. sa pagkamoot
na yaon lang, na nagmamawot
man lang ngani talagang giromdomon;
para mag imbong, mag init
sagkod mamati liwat ang pungaw,
ang paghanap sa kugos
asin init kang palad pag minadutaan
kabali na ang girok sa paghinghing,
asin kugos na siring man sa dalan pauli.