Kailangan ko ng oras –

Hindi para isipin kung ayaw ko na,
Hindi para isipin kung papaano ko sila matatakasan
Kung hindi para maghanap

ng damdamin mula sa mundo,
ng damdamin na iuukit ko sa’king papel,
ng aking sarili na hanggang ngayo’y nawawala pa rin sa aklat na hindi ko pa naisusulat



Soft – are the curves of your smile,
my stomach on the inside
your lips against mine

Warmth – is the sun in your eyes
my hands under your skin
your arms, a blanket I sink in

Bliss – each second that ticks
my heart ensnared
your love is –


You and I occupy different orbits that run clockwise and counter,
meeting only after a weekly revolution
or when the weather is nice enough that we cheat the course
and find ourselves saying “Hello” within those small windows of
The planets giggle at our sporadic alignment as asteroids fly by to run
yet we sprout brighter and hotter than any star in the system
a constant constellation to look forward to —


In this vast galaxy powdered with glitter,
(each more bizarre than the other)
two lone stars drifted too close,
fluttering amicably as planets and moons pass them by –
shyly gleaming in the clouds or
slyly glinting sparks to the Sun:
destined to fall out of orbit whizzing to detonate a


I am afraid of matchsticks burning my fingers
or elevator doors slicing me in half
I am terrified of kissing you for the last time in a day
or waking up realizing you no longer love me
I am frightened of the future, of what tale it would hold, if it’d still be you and me
or just… me
I am petrified of these thoughts, of these dreams, of these fears that latch when I look into your eyes
and catch all this warmth and not know what to do if they disappear, when –

Still Life

She is a block of stubborn marble
being sculpted to a certain design,
to a certain direction,
to a figure that speaks a different
message from what she intended,
from her transcendental essence –

With each hammer-strike another part of her is
ticked off, important pieces that the artist
dismisses; the pieces she cradled within the walls
of her prison,
of her person,
of her…

The fleshing of she not being she as
limbs and torso and intellect function only through commands and demands,
this precious stone, this block, this cell,
this compact arrangement of atoms that
thirst delicate fingers of art, of feeling,
of anything but this undulating hollowness
the fraud calls Still Life


The crook of your neck is my favorite place to rest my chin,

to bury my nose deep into the crutches of your scent: the natural musk of my person manifested

as a trail of fingertips tiptoe on your bare chest, a smile tugs at my lips gently at the bliss of midday splayed around you,

in turn, you scratch my back fondly: the soft contours of my unflattering body don’t feel as unflattering anymore

rather, you transform me into a wonderland of bubbles, mischief and sweetness encircled in this secret display of “us”

What do you know of the word itself?

Who are we to decide what we deserve in this world? When all we’ll ever do will never be enough to satisfy the essence of the word. Deserve. What does it mean?  It’s such a delicate word where you roll your tongue towards the end. Like the taking of what it is due where you coil your arm outward and sweep it back to your base; like a kiss for a heroic: a type of currency where you exchange things of varying values and try to cheat the other that your item deserves to be traded for his item, as if they are of the same forge and temper and copper.

There it is again.
That word.

So easily drawn from your vocabulary, without a second thought, the word feels like the only one you could use in that sentence, like it should be lightly used without it’s many consequences or your many pretexts that indeed, it can be the appropriation of your fleeting feelings that you claim I deserve so much.

What do you know of what I deserve?
What do you know of the word itself?

Travel Collection Entry#4: Sirao, Cebu

I went to a garden in Sirao
found another realm in each flower
Flaunting and flirting butterfly wings
Picturesque couples exchanging rings

The sun perches on marshmallow clouds
shines on different statues standing proud
A cliff-drawn fairy princess tower
God’s giant palm where men don’t cower

Such a beautiful wee Amsterdam



We live on the same planet, the same soil, the same goddamn city, and yet we are far away like the north and the south. We are the ends of two poles constantly tugging at the same rope, expectantly at when it will end and the other would turn up – breathless as the day of flushed confessions and the sweeping of feet from under our unguarded of moments – yet coming up with nothing, just the unruly confusion of the disentangled stub because the hour that you started to pull was the hour I stopped, as our body clocks succumbed to different whenevers. And each time this cycle rotates back to the beginning, each time the other throws the line back the other end, there is another grain of unintended hurt tucked away in the chambers of our hearts which cannot be helped. We are two people enamored by the closeness we share, the love we profess, the time we implore – the laws of man and the universe could never part us. It’s just that the injustice here does not come from the situation itself or any external force in any form but from our unwillingness to compromise our separate lives to make room for our love to evolve.