Bridget’s Story

I look at your big, round, dark eyes
And sometimes wonder if they could ever reflect
The void inside you,
The battles never won,
And the battles you choose to walk away from.

Your big smile would dupe us,
It could betray the anguish in your heart,
But your silence never lies
And the tears you cry a reticent testimony
To the rage you suppress inside.

The walls between us hear the sound of your silence
And the ambivalence festooned in your mind—
To cry or not to cry, to surrender or fight—
As palpable as the fine hair on your head.

I once, twice, said you are pretty.
You laughed out loud
But what I heard was a hollow sound
Like random beatings of the drum—
Discordant.
For out of the overflow of the heart,
The mouth speaks not only with words
But also with the melody of laughter, or wailing
When you are rejoicing, or weeping.

If only the walls between us could speak,
They would tell of the shadows lurking in your mind,
Of the music playing in your heart,
But they are but that—
Walls.
So, I just look at your eyes,
And listen to your silence
And tears.

December 28, 2009

Dazed

I woke up at 4:30 am today to the pelting of the rain on my window. In the coldness of the room, I felt your arm around my waist and your breath on my nape. I turned around to look at your beautiful face and gaze at your long lashes, your not-so-perfect nose, and your red lips. Your eyes were closed but even then, I knew they held all the beauty of your soul. I took in all the beauty that was before me, illuminated by the light coming from the lamppost outside the window.

I felt your hand caress my arm, my shoulder, my neck, my face then you planted a soft kiss on my lips. I anticipated a beautiful dance to happen, with the rain outside playing its music. You have always considered the rain sexy.

I heard footsteps inside the room and turned to see a child that had your long lashes, your not-so-perfect nose, and your red lips. She had tears on her cheeks that reminded that today, I would look at your face beneath the glass covering of your casket for the last time; that starting today, there would be no more long lashes, not-so-perfect nose, and red lips to gaze at; that starting today, there would be no more dance when the rain comes while we are in bed.

Summer

I don’t like summer.
I don’t like the way the summer sun
darkens my already dark skin
and how the warm air causes me to sweat
even when I’m not doing anything
or how the morning air causes perspiration
to dot my back just as I step out of the bathroom.

I am not sure of this;
maybe I was absent when it was
discussed in class
but it is dustier in summer
as if the warm air causes dust particles
to rise and dance in the air
right before my very eyes.
Later, I sneeze.

But if summer leads you to me,
if it allows us an excuse to be together,
if it gives us the chance to escape the city
and enjoy the waves at our feet,
then let me have summer
with the warm air and the sweat
and the summer morning air
that greets me as I step out
of the bathroom.

Let me have summer’s cold nights
when I can feel the warmth of your embrace
and your lips on mine.
Let me have summer’s warm days
and bright sun so I can gaze at your face
and look at your eyes
and see me in them.

Not/Writing About Love

Tonight, I don’t want to write about love. I don’t want to write about a failed romance or broken promises. I would like to write about how a lightning as sharp as the sword used by the samurai, with its pointed tip and jagged edges, slashed open the nimbus clouds in the afternoon while the world in this corner was busy with humans typing away on their keyboards, talking to someone on the telephone, stopping by a cubicle to chat with a colleague, or knitting their brows to conjure up that next big idea, the one that would make the bulbs above their heads light up.

As the lightning poked the sky, a downpour began. The raindrops hit the ground, unmindful of how the city dwellers hate the rain because it makes their commute harder and longer, unless they are in bed, hugging and cuddling someone with the cool breeze and the gentle splatter of the rain outside serving the music to their dance. Beyond the city walls, the farmers rejoice and thank Heaven as the rain seeps through the soil and nourishes the grains of corn or rice planted in their fields.

I stepped out of the concrete edifice that had been my dwelling for the last eight hours, sometimes fifteen, a sad fact but a fact, nonetheless. I opened my red umbrella and felt, heard, the raindrops land on it and after, they fell to the ground and formed puddles at my feet that wetted my pants. I walked the street to the train station and chanced upon a boy of seven selling sampaguita. No umbrella over his head, nothing to protect him from the angry rain. While the sharp rain hit his head, his whole body, as he shivered in the cold, I heard the gentle plea uttered by his eyes as he raised his arm towards me, his hand clutching the stringed flowers. I took out a bill and bought some of his goods while I covered his head with the red umbrella in my hand, and told him to go home.

Tonight, I don’t want to write about love, the kind that makes me giddy and dreamy, the kind that makes me smile as I stare out into space. I would like to write about the kind of love written in the Good Book, the second commandment, “love your neighbor as yourself.”

Free Fall

Like a leaf falling through a ravine
The wind causing the only friction
Swirling and swirling, dancing in the air
Following the wind’s leading

Will the leaf defy the call of gravity and
Will the wind be more successful?

I can feel the wind against my face
Making my body resist the pull of gravity

I can feel the breeze gently combing every strand of my hair
It makes my white, long, flowing dress ruffle in the air

The river below is calling.
How will it feel when my body hits the waters?

I am standing on the edge of a cliff,
The rough face of the rocks stinging my bare feet.

In a while, I can rest
When my body hits the water
And the cold river envelopes my whole being

I am ready now.
On the brink of a free fall.