Half-light

Its a wonder to me

how a half-lit room

radiates a certain

luminosity.

A glow of half-truth

half-fiction of how light

walks a seeming contradiction

across a crease on the sofa

the scent of stolen kisses

or a phone call from

a long time friend.

The future whispers

written in a book

of love and other secrets

as the dust settles

lead by a wary light

upon a blank page.

Afraid of full light or darkness

of what it might conceal

or reveal.

Waiting to awaken the

memory in my hands

as we touch and how

our fingers fit perfectly.

Or just maybe a

trickle of dreams

on the same night.

Amazed at the

half-lit room

from a distance

waiting for that

brief encounter

bathed in light

where we were

meant to see

each other.

Home

The night turns white

bathed in the light

of fireflies

under a tree of stars.

Illuminating an array

of green grass

and dancing moonlight.

The night sky falls

slowly

upon your embrace.

I catch a firefly

it is warm in my hand

its soft light

trickles on

the bridge

of your nose

your brown eyes

as they look into mine.

You reach out

your silky hand

the earth spins

slowly…

Your fingers

dance across

my palms.

The earth stops

as your fingers lay

on my palms

time waits to take a peek

then shudders

takes a deep breath.

The firefly is warm

between our hands.

You whisper in my ear,

“this is real.”

I swoop in for a kiss

but the day has come

to wash away dreams.

The warmth and light

of the firefly is all

that was left.

I close my palm

and close my eyes.

When I

think of you

I find it

easier

to believe

in things

I don’t

understand.

I feel

at home

in

your

hands.

Blackhole

There is a scar on the city that never seems to heal

It reveals its history with each wound

The scrape of hooves on Intramuros, the patter of feet in Fort Santiago

The feet chose to draw its own destiny in bronze

Amidst the fray of muffled bullets silenced by lips

We never seem to hear the sound of trains

passing through tunnels

as memory walks down the stairs

to buy its ticket

and look for a seat

between two bent elbows

The doors slide open the I comes out and hears the sound of bullets

The gun loaded with footsteps  whizzing by the wounded street

It is not 1896 the I is unabashed the bronze is covered with dust

Guns have been replaced with sweet promises

The wound grows bigger as the I reaches out to buy a Sampaguita

The city bleeds as the sound of trains blur into the tunnels

Light fades inside the tunnel

it is frightened by the

future hidden on the other side

it holds onto time

it refuses to let it go

the I is frozen

on the seat between

two bent elbows

The I leaves behind a trail of shadows it enters the train again

This time in Katipunan, the I no longer hears bullets

Just the sound of wind and walking grass

The I remembers memory on a stone of how moths

Linger under a tree waiting for a playful child to touch its cheek

A flick of the wrist a ticket comes out of a tunnel

The doors close leaving behind memories on a stone, it is dark again

The I is no longer alone

between two bent elbows

it is sitting next to You

the I does not notice the wound

it thinks of the city

its old streets and

bronze footsteps

It is the same day again 1896 the firing squad prepares the bullets

All the I can hear is fuego the body is falling into the ground

Suddenly frozen in stone and bronze

The last uttered word written on paper hidden in a lamp

The bronze footsteps leave behind a trail for the fireflies to light the way

The I notices it is no

longer alone between two

bent elbows reaching out

reluctantly to You

it sees the wound

I waivers it sees the

wound getting bigger

it pulls back its hand

with a faint whisper

it suddenly found itself

upon the wound

it stops bleeding

there was no blood just a scar

The train stops the doors slide open the half light bathes the station slowly

Upon the landing of yellow lines were pieces of stone

A tint of bronze and dust and faded memories found

There was nothing left of I but You.

Aliens

I.

There is a house in Quezon City where light is afraid to enter. There is no sound because the trees don’t want to listen. The air doesn’t bother to make a pit stop only passing by to pick up the old dust and yellowed newspapers. The paint unrecognizable, the creases of dirty white tearing from the walls losing consciousness of time whisked away by the wind. The green grass lost its old luster hiding behind its own shadow from the sun. The old wooden door is closed and the dilapidated windows are half-open. Everything left behind as it was, the upholstered sofa slanting a little towards the bedroom door. The living room table’s right foot juts out poking the chair’s left leg. The mugs separated from the glasses, the spoons from the forks. Order set apart from chaos. The senile refrigerator forgot how to turn water into ice, the coffee cups can’t tell water from wine, the plates are confused which of them are for breakfast and which are for dessert. It does not know its name. It does not care of these little details. It does not know of its use. A rumbling sound enters the driveway a familiar echo rustles the leaves of the trees. It hears voices. The air crashes into the steel plates of the car. It feels pain. The dilapidated windows reveal the upholstered sofa, the wrinkle that could not be straightened out and the yellow spots of age. It sees.  Slow easy steps enter the house, the knob turns to the right, the door is left ajar, clear fingerprints are left to linger on its skin. It feels.  Light floods the dark room, it blinds the coffee cups, the mugs, the spoons and forks, the table, the sofa, and the refrigerator they are not used to such light.

II.

The soft light illuminates the room darkness slithers into the cracks in the wall. The chair sees the table poking its left leg, the upholstered sofa sees its wrinkles and yellowed skin offended by its grotesqueness, the refrigerator felt shame for not turning water into ice. The shadowy figure looks around takes the design in digests and churns out a few words through his cellphone. Brushes the dusty table with his left hand and sits on the chair goes back to his car and brings a broom and a vacuum. He starts cleaning and scrubbing. Arranging the furniture and clearing the dust. The sofa realized its was not supposed to be slanting towards the bedroom door. The dust and stains removed it feels fresh and new it remembers its former beauty. The table’s right leg replaced with a new one no longer poking the chair (a sigh of relief came out from the chair’s cushion). The refrigerator plugged in which revitalized its old motor making blocks and blocks of ice much to its delight. The man brings out a sachet of Nescafe and creamer it takes a coffee cup and mixes, the coffee cup remembers it was not for water nor wine. It remembers its name. It cares of these little details. It remembers its use. It remembers the memory of light its warmth and luminosity.

III.

The man leaves the house momentarily wipes his face with his handkerchief removing the dirt and sweat. Reaches for his cellphone on his right pocket dials seven digits a woman picks up on the other line. He says, “let’s go home.”

Teleportation

It says on the sign

There was a boy standing in the spotlight of the sun looking

“Teleporter”

at an old church wall. There he saw two white hand prints, the same

it takes you

size as his hands. It was still wet, he brushed away the dirt and rubble

anywhere you

fascinated with its shape and light. The wet white paint glistened

want to go.

on his bright brown eyes. The warmth of its radiance lured him

The shortcuts

towards its surface like the man on the moon reaching for the sun.

through light

Slowly, the boy’s hands landed on the hand print’s rocky white

and the crevice

facade. With the blink of an eye, he heard a voice calling his name

of a door.

from the window of the old church. The voice a sweet whisper of dew

Fragments of

trickles down from the absence of sound to the tangible realm of

silence engulfed

words and sentences. With the blink of an eye, he is on his feet

in a seashell.

running towards a door across a sea of green grass, his feet touching

With the blink

the space between the concrete road and the moist of rain. He stopped

of an eye

abruptly, the window of the sun reveals the church in the center. The

the soft whispers

door opens its mouth and calls his name. The familiar voice of dew

of the wind

enters his ears and draws him in. The boy walks towards the voice,

carried to the sea

the new walls coated with fresh white paint filled his nose. His

dropped on the palms

hand brushed against the wall it was warm in his eyes, wet

of a lost lover.

and smooth on his hands. He looked up at the window and saw

Moment upon

a girl the same age as he with bright brown almond-shaped eyes,

moment drifting in

black hair up to her nape. She calls out his name through the

time that stands still

window. The letters formed on her lips turned into words

with the blink

acquires shape and form into sentences pierces his eyes and tickles

of an eye.

his ears. The boy enters the door of the church the aroma of varnished

Morning collides

pews touches his nose and the light of the chandeliers blinds his eyes.

with evening

But the boy does not waiver he moves along stairs and corridors.

not ready to

At last, he reaches the room with the girl with the bright brown eyes

surrender its glow

shy hands reach out, the forefinger makes one small step but the

to the moon.

hand ignores the giant leap. He looks at her and opens his mouth

It is memory

the butterflies refuse to come out. The smooth white skin of her hand

that departs

touches his. Her hand fit in perfectly under his palms. She looked

not time

at him her eyes said, “it’s all right I don’t understand either but what

with the blink

I know is this the time we have right now is real.” It is memory that

of an eye.

forgets not time. With the blink of an eye he is gone. Back to the old

The present

church wall and white hand prints. The boy looks at his hand and

trickles down

sees the white paint. He forgets the warmth he hurriedly wipes away

into the cleft

the paint on his hands. It is not yet time, it is not yet love. With the

of the past

blink of an eye he is already a man no longer a boy. Back to the old

seeping through

church wall and white hand prints. His scarred and calloused hands

the window

much bigger than the print. He reaches out to the memory of childhood

to the future

a lady with bright brown eyes walks by he touches her hand and remembers

with the blink

of an eye.