Lover/Loser

(For Chris)

 

This is our curse:

To be constantly drawn

to lips that hiss

our names.

 

How many times

have we felt the same fingers

bruise our white bodies?

The same mouths clamping

upon our necks?

 

And still we burn for them,

feet first into the fire.

The smoke that we create

fill their minds with longing.

In burning our sadness expands

and burst into a fragrance

that clings to their skin.

 

How we would want

to have this mingling

last longer than a breath.

 

Our spirits escape

from between their teeth,

curl and unfurl like dove wings.

Spent, they flick our heads

onto the table top

our ashes fall

like snow

on their

laps.

 

(revised July 2004)

Cycles

(For Joe)

 

Who says that sadness

is for the solitary, Joe?

 

When we circle the crowds

like kites loosened

from their strings

and no one notices.

 

When we are the only people

who saw the ripples

caused by the dying fly

that landed in someone’s soup.

 

When at the bar

we contemplate

the water stain rings

that form beneath our glasses.

 

Who says the sad

are solitary?

DECAF

 

I traded the addictive kind

for you

that I may have the flavor

without the guilt

who could tell the difference after all

except for those who could not sleep

you taste swirls to my head

like thin lines of steam

unlike another I savored before

which lay thickly a caffeine cloud high

your scent awakens thoughts of sleepnesses

for a moment your heat stings my tongue

warms like rum

lingers in the back of my mouth

and traces a singe path down my throat

you fill my morning hunger

but cool too soon

and leave me with a stale aftertaste on my lips

and an empty swelling in the belly.

The other night when I got home my mom was listening to an AM station on the radio. From what I could hear, a couple of guys were arguing on-air. I mean, really arguing. I could almost see the spittle coming out of their mouths as they shouted at each other. And do you know who those guys were? Well, one was an Iglesia ni Cristo pastor and the other was Born Again Christian. Some of the challenges they hurled were along the lines of "Ano ang pangalan ng Pariseo na blah blah blah... sa Mateo Dos, vesiculo...etc. etc. etc." Celebrity death match, anyone?

I am not a confrontational person. No matter how open or honest I seem to be, in truth I am a coward when it comes to voicing out my feelings.

Sometimes, during emotional upheavals, I resolve my inner turmoil with the writing of letters. These are letters addressed particularly to the person who is troubling me. It is in that missive that I pour out my feelings -- my anger, my sadness, my grief, my profound joy.

However, these letters are never sent. It is never really for the benefit of the supposed receipient but for my own. It is my way of coping with an issue. These are my Mythical Letters.

Recently, I came across a little black book, a journal of sorts, which I kept a few years ago. It contained the Mythical Letters I wrote for my Beloved. Though years have passed and I have found a new person to love (same tragedy as the predecessor, much to my regret), the sentiments contained into those empassioned writing still hold the same. The sentiments remain unchanged.