the end
there's nothing and everything to say.
but you understand me far too well.
what more can i possibly ask for?
you have already plucked the moon
from the sky, for me.
* * *
sorry. that message was personal. i just had to get it out of my system kahit hindi ko alam kung kailan niya mababasa ito. matagal na panahon ko nang sinasabi: ayoko nang umibig, ngunit ito lang ang dahilan kong mabuhay. (i don't care if my tagalog sucks. english doesn't quite capture my sentiment.)
* * *
gusto kong muling magsulat at magsulat pa para sa iyo. ngunit, ito na lang muna:
Live Poem
Anna Bernaldo
"Love is a choice," my mother always says,
But this time her spatula did not point
Pragmatically in my direction.
It stirred silence on the boiling broth,
Ripples matching the excited rhythm
Of the TV sports anchor’s voice
In a basketball game my father is watching.
Now that I’m older, I’m forced to reconsider
You and my fixation on the Addams couple
As our role models forever.
One always hungry for the other.
I never listened to my mother,
But every day I see her.
And I’m older and love must be domestic,
Responsible, sensible as a haircut in summer.
Is it possible for us to make something more
Out of what we are about to have?
Of course, you do not know.
Even I do not know.
Why did I even begin asking questions?
I just wanted to write you a love poem
But I can only live one for you.
sand scribbles by isea , 4:57 a. m.
The Moon
was orange from where I stood,
looming over me like a sun
just about ready to give up on its own light.
It was painful to watch it lose its amber glow,
growing paler as it rose higher,
shining like the death of some quiet angel
at the edges of reality, ready to visit the corners
of the cosmos that not even she can go
without fading away.
And now it is a stillborn child of the stars,
still curled up like on the day it passed from its progenitor's womb,
dead but still beautiful;
its amniotic radiance is a reflection of
its distant mother.
There is no life on the moon.
It does not shine for us.
In time it will turn itself in the sky,
until before it vanishes in the night,
it will be a cradle,
holding the cold shadowed crust
of what could have been part of a star.