More Than A First Kiss

More than a first kiss in utter darkness,
certain things miss the eye, like the wind
that bends a tree from where it should be,
or a smell that uncovers a buried memory,
or a song that fills the body with strange
poignancy, so there must be in Love taken
amiss, that weakens all but the heart's eye
that serves our will to go on and never die.

// Nov 2016

Lullaby

Come to bed, love. Let the world lean by
the boats of our eyes. Rest your head
in this waking space that touches my cheek.

Come to bed, love. Pull up the blanket
of our dreams and we'll chart our course
among the neon stars on the ceiling.

Come to bed, love. Let me feel the daylight
off your skin, and surf all the curves
and scars and soft pulses that make you mine.

Come to bed, love. Fill me with a lullaby
of your tenderness. Let your gentle breathing
reach my shores like the sound of waves.

Come to bed, love. Your pearlescent eyes
are the last I hold dear, these two deep
oceans that in the dark slowly disappear.

// Oct 2016

Black Out In The City Dark

We are the black out in the city dark.
We are the light machine humming in its heart.
We are the finger burn from a candle flame.
We are the fading stars all the same.
We are the lost leaves of a skeleton tree.
We are the bitter spray of an ocean free.
We are the tears fallen from relentless rains.
We are the flood in the city's veins.
We are the fierce winds in the monsoon.
We are the eye of the super typhoon.

// Oct 2016

The Moon Cup

A force of nature can never be stopped, like
the way we love, or eat, the way we breathe,
or the way we kiss like this, or bleed like this.
Maybe we can never escape the forces of our own,
like how we choke our rivers with our sorrows,
or how we turn our hills into landfills the
color of dying roses. And maybe our hands
are meant to fashion a small purple cup that
fills and pours what we would never dare touch,
like liquid rose petals thick on our white palm,
surprisingly raw and rich, surprisingly warm.

// Oct 2016

Many Festivals Ago

Many festivals ago far away
from home, I woke up to a pale
full moon and soundlessly crept
over people sleeping on the soft
earth of the forest. The bonfire
had long since died, and there
among high branches embers
of fireflies. Crickets and snores
made a song of a butterflied
dream. Old trees rustled as if
awoken and gently swayed to
walk me towards you. And there
you were, dappled in moonlight,
head pillowed against a root,
chest rising and falling like a
mountain across ages. After all
the heavy drum beats, lambanog,
and dancing around a large, open
fire, here you were, quiet as a
cricket, cool as breeze, and there
I was, waiting for your mouth
to slightly open to the moon.

// Oct 2016

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