Letters

Hey.

I got your e-mail.

They’re more like notices

Getting shorter as they come

Like I am a transaction.

I’m sorry it took me a day

To respond.

Had to go through the letters

You used to send me. I keep them in a

Bundle, Dear, by my pillow.

Tied loosely with the rosepoint sash

Of my lingerie unwashed

Since you left.

How much do stamps cost now?

I knew you better when

Your illegible cursives would

Stroke me gently and lift my skirt

Then I would feel how you went

Through your day as your

Loops and tittles sigh with

The release of your pen.

And I would lean back, weakened

with the pages consumed by your presence.

Before resealing your letters

I’d taste you in the flap.

Letters

Hey.

I got your e-mail.

They’re more like notices

Getting shorter as they come

Like I am a transaction.

I’m sorry it took me a day

To respond.

Had to go through the letters

You used to send me. I keep them in a

Bundle, Dear, by my pillow.

Tied loosely with the rosepoint sash

Of my lingerie unwashed

Since you left.

How much do stamps cost now?

I knew you better when

Your illegible cursives would

Stroke me gently and lift my skirt

Then I would feel how you went

Through your day as your

Loops and tittles sigh with

The release of your pen.

And I would lean back, weakened

with the pages consumed by your presence.

Before resealing your letters

I’d taste you in the flap.

a new woman

it might take a lifetime to improve myself but today i renew my commitment. And this time, i will enjoy the process more. :) there will be a lot of challenging with my mind to transform the pains and struggles that come with the process into pleasure and love working in me. it's exciting how all these will lead to my being a better woman, sister, friend, partner, and citizen. Meanwhile, let me have my nails done.:)

salamat, Mr. Waiter! :)

how strange. it's a tame friday night for me -- no overconsumption, no raucous laughter, no typical start-of-the-weekend lawlessness. by choice, yes, proudly by choice, i am perched in this quaint eating place, and just spilling good, happy vibes. I believe it worked on the waiter who, although forbidden by management, gave me the restaurant's wifi password.
'atin-atin lang 'to, ma'am.'
Here's a big, fat, crisp tip for ya. :)

Moving on together

He has a girlfriend now, I just learned, one he must have met in his close Asian circles. I could tell by her smile and composure that the girl is the safe type, but still, of the gossamer-and-steel material that girlfriends are spun.

I realize that I am either steel or gossamer, and a successful meshing only happens when I feel the man is drifting away. So the spinning, then, is upon the push of an emergency button. I chuckle at the thought of, as he said, and as a good number of them said, “how interestingly unmanageable” I could get.

Somehow I am happy that he has gotten himself a girlfriend he deserves, he with the manager’s hands. But if Eve has to speak up, let me say that I feel lonely and overcome. Not because he is no longer sharing dreams with me. By our personalities and priorities and attraction, I have long resolved that we won’t be good together.

We are two slightly similar, good puzzle pieces that don’t have enough grooves to accommodate each other. I have moved on far, that the most I could imagine myself sharing with him is a cordial high-five.

I feel lonely then, and stupid and selfish and inconsiderate because I still held on to the assurance that we were going to move on at the same pace. How could I ever think that this was possible? He’s a hunter who declares his intention. I, on the other hand, agonizingly wait to be pried open, and that’s where Eve fails me.

Ohwell, this is a lesson in selfishness. Let him have his moment. Meanwhile, let me console myself with a work-related fundraising gala tomorrow, a wine appreciation event with poker friends, dinner with a soul-food-mate, Spanish films with a buddy, dvd marathons in Tan Tiu's new couch, and a hopefully, a chockfull of surprises from some friend.

But really now, I know by tomorrow, I won't be as dark as this. It must be that time of the month, or I just miss home so much.

Dumaguete

The boulevard at past-five or so
is a movie freed out of reels and frames:

A kalesa lithely trundles by
backlit and muscular, piercing through
the sunset that now yolks
the whole stretch of the scene, and seasons
your tapa.

You chug a beer, and chew, swallow, spit
chains of smoke and stories and tapa;

The English you hear is hardened with Bisaya,
coming in as patient subtitles
(with occasional pauses for translation,
transliteration, and grammatical confusion)
marrying German and Dutch with locals –

flirtation and proposals flutter
from bench to bench, bench to bar, table to table;
table to ear, lips to ear, lips to face
face to tongue, tongue to ear, ear to tongue.

Tongue to nape, nape to breath, breath to leg
nape to leg and toe and finger
finger to chest to hair to knee to waist and
hips

Until the unlit night wildly entangles the sequence
and the credits roll.

Jog and Smog

I haven’t jogged in a long time. I used to jog in a gated community on weekends near the dorm I stayed in. But there has been politically driven threats lately (how else would threats be driven?) that it was a bit dangerous to run around there, though it was heavily guarded. Too bad for the senior citizens who used to gather in the community’s little circle to do aerobics.

I also just moved in to a new place along a super highway that spares no lane for walking or smelling the flowers. Crazy motorists abound, and looking up, there is more smog than cloud. Sometimes, even when up in our cozy little unit turned away from the highway, my used astringent-soaked cotton ball would still remind me of the dark cloud that literally hangs above our heads. My cotton ball, an excellent mirroring of the freak of nature that is the metro smog.