Waking Up On Sundays

I see you.

Sleepy eyes. A half smile.

Your outstretched hands caress
my ruffled raven hair.
The murmured sweet nothings
flood us with innocent light,
and I bathe in the beauty that I see,
clad in satin, unadorned and free,
unfettered by Shiseido and Lipfinity.

The colors that you borrow
seem not here today.
But I will not miss them,
I like the way you are.
The freckles on your skin
are colors unto themselves.

Seeing you on Sundays
always happen like a dream,
a flash in the pan,
then suddenly gone.

And I am left tracing the outline
of the shadows of the trees,
while I run by my lonesome.

MRT

Night falls over Makati,
and we stood there watching
the city lights go up,
from a crowded train.

We touched our skin,
and we smiled to each other
Not a word bridged us over,
But we knew, somehow,
that there is something coming out of us,
something that had been in a slumber
but is now frolicking in the wild blue yonder,
filling us with a promise,
we knew can never be fulfilled.

We chose not to say a word.
For we are two mortals, trapped,
yet still, by the rhythm of the rail we tapped,
a rhythm of our own.
We made music out of skin,
And we lived a life out
of watching city lights go up
from a crowded train.

EDSA, by Train II

Utter stillness.
Unbearably light.
Jagged pieces of Pasayscape flew by.

And I paused to wonder
if time in trains is frozen
as life outside moves on… …

to destroy itself with mortal thoughts;
like silver daggers of slanted rain.

Kissing, missing,
but succeeding
in destroying,
the view from where I sit.

So I blinked to change the subject.

The edge of ADB,
“fighting poverty”,
turned opaque in my eyes.

So I persevered to think
of nice things,
good things,
of coffeeshops and moonbeams
As I rode the night.

Yesterday, I asked.

Are trains for thinking?