Love Letter to the Moon

The cool breeze breathes on my neck, and shivers of pleasure run up my spine. I feel the night kissing my skin, my cheeks, my soul; a benediction of the moon. Yes, you are alive, feel it within you, she says. And I feel alive, more than I have ever before, sitting here on this bench in this lonely park with you by my side. How I've longed for this, for the stars to show their true selves to me, with you. How far away they must be, balls of fire glimmering with passion, desire. Such small glints of hope. Hope, what I always find looking at the midnight sky blanketed by shimmering jewels. And you being here is all that I could ever hope for. Stay with me like this forever; no need to speak, your touch is all I'll need. Your fingers speak louder than your words could ever do. Oh, how I wish the night would never end, for you to never leave. You consume me. But in the morning you are gone like all the stars that shined hope. No, not really gone, just covered by the powerful brilliance of the sun's reality.

Imagining Crashingmirth

June 14, Friday evening. A deluvial rain pours over the city causing the dirty streets with clogged drainage to be submerged in at least knee-deep water. Inside a passenger jeepney struck in traffic a young poet ponders on his next piece. The rain, the wetness, the smog seem to incubate his thoughts.

By midnight, he arrived at his apartment at last. He opened the creaky door and proceeded to go inside the dark and cramped space. He fumbled in the darkness to switch on a lampshade. He went to the bedroom, took of his wet clothes and sprawled on top of the bed to collect his thoughts.

Almost three a.m. and he still faces a blank page. "This sucks, I better just try to sleep," he said.

The Waiting Room

Alone in the waiting room I feel the earth beneath my feet shaking and the sky above my head collapsing.

"The enemies are approaching! They're attacking!" I distantly hear someone say.
I rise from my seat and peek out of the window. Dull grey light filters through equally filthy clouds. A strong wind flings dry leaves, plastic bags, and posters to every direction.
I take my seat again and notice how unlike outside the room I am in is. The thermostat is keeping the air inside all nice and toasty. Several downlights give off enough light to convince even that small potted flowering plant that it is still morning.

But is it really still morning?

I've been waiting inside for quite a while now. I wonder when my name will be called.