want. want. want.



that night

cover the skies like blanket

that cold wind

blows a song that could melt

the last resolve wrapped around my fingers

that they deliver pulsing sensations

Extract me from the lies

of purity


to open my Inbox

and not want to delete your messages


because I’ve been

saddled by guilt for

too long

it’s not fun anymore


On Characters Lifted from a Book

9:00 AM

My mind is not the place to be right now so… I’m going to read that book, The Stranger.


The jeepney driver, who was seated next to me in the left, is engaged in a banter with a passenger at the back seat. They’re squabbling over the “real” fare for the Apas-Ramos route. My senses snap at their exchange, then back to you, Camus. As my eyes prod to read the next paragraphs, I cant help but second-think: did the banter over the nine-peso fare really occurred? Because their voices seemed to belong to the pages you filled.

They were men and strangers, too.

unnamed verse #5


There’s a sudden fancy growing on me

a need to follow the dotted line in this flat, flat world

my feet must skip spaces and depths

to stand near your bedroom door and steal…

… glances that you could only give to your missing sock or fav’rite shirt

… whispers that drive words out of strange thoughts

… moments of solitude that you so crave when I

Am here.

Right here.