Thursday, February 10, 2011


Love is a crooked willow
that sprouts feathery branches
a trunk of jellyfish twigs
and mangrove roots.
The mountain,
the curtain of the stage.
A river of raindrops
beneath its purple shade.
A breath of zephyr; the tree,

Love is a printed flower,
a genus unknown.
Leaves of amber sheets, parchment paper.
An origami grows from aluminum stems.
Flora of the sun
grazing lazily on Mays
lures flies to its depths-
a daughter of Venus.

Love is an insect
weaving a cocoon from Chinese silk
traded for moon kisses
and azure embraces.
Polka dot wings, angels' hair.
A cup of brown sugar
enveloped in its claws.
The budding of a bird bloom,
ambrosia. The morning dew
refreshment while it hops across blossoms.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

The Dancing of the Drops

Raindrops danced on his face.

The wind, an endless lullaby, lured the characters to a muted waltz-gliding and tapping on the contours of his chin and cheeks, while the feeble cascaded down the valleys of his neck.

He wasn't wearing a jacket that afternoon-nobody is. It was an unexpected rain. A sudden depression of a previously sunny sky.

He, clad in the most casual clothes was drenched, heavily drenched. The thin cotton fabric of his shirt clung to his torso, revealing his chiseled features. I looked at him with fervor anticipation. Even in the grayest of weathers, he never fails to exude that certain kind of aura. Olympic. Yes. Powerful like the gods of that mighty mountain.

I remember his skin, the softness evoking blossoms in May. I remember his scent, that distinct musky scent that could only be his. I remember him in my bed, my hands caressing every inch of his being. I remember the kisses we shared. I remember blowing his horn, that magnificent horn, and how beautiful he sounded. I remember our birds soaring through the waves of ecstasy, then that little bit of heaven came and I wished it would last forever.

. . . . . . . .

Dusk has fallen. The sky, crumpled by the vivid hues of gray and black, provided for the perfect backdrop for the ending of our story. Lightning and thunder, the songs, reverberate through the ends of the boulevard.

Oh how I love him. I know I always will. But fear of the uncertain took over me. Ours was a love contradicted by the standards of society. Ours was a story ought to be untold to future generations. Our love story would've been great. But it is what it is-a "would've been". Never to be continued. Never to be repeated.

I stared at him again. This time, more intently, hoping against hope that I would find something that will make me stay.

A flash lightened the darkening sky. Then I turned around and walked away. Drops too, were dancing on my face.

Photo taken here.