Both of you affect my system, like how water - hot or cold - sustain my life.
the cold absence of its color, its odor greets my pointing finger as the skin contacts the green pail meant for a hurried bath.
and then the other mass, formed in between contrapped spaces of a plain, white mug, to make rhythmic pulses with an energy.
ah, the morning.
and you.
yes.
both of you.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
a few happiness
In a few hours, I will be legally bound (again) by the confines of the dictatorial impulses of my legal wife. She will masterfully dictate my every movement, every second meticulously patterned into excess hours of labor – proofs of my involuntary ardor and affection for her and more so, my fortnightly present from her.
In a few hours, the other woman has to dematerialize into thin air. Her escape, even her escape – dematerializing into thin air – presents into a tragic metaphor, a sad melancholy between silence and goodbye. For after a week and two extended days of blameless road trips and unhidden romance, we have to go by our usual routes – a routine reasonably left within secrecy and kept by the remembrance of memories.
In a few hours, I become her slave. I become her yes to her arduous list of requests commands. The night will culminate into a common template – thoughts of a needed divorce or, in the Philippine euphemism, annulment. Like the marriage or relationship never existed in the first place. What a relief, the sighing moon would say. But she demands no animate object be expressed in a paragraph devoted to her. Her rules comply for formality and objective reasoning. Words like those are pure rubbish, she would comment. And so, I would not compromise – it still not, for her recollection, in a few hours.
In a few hours, I give her the freedom – the freedom she does not deserve, the emancipation she does not desire. She wants her black flood of flowing hair maneuver against the tight grip of my fist – controlled yet free, like how our rendezvous should have been in the past year and the new cycle that has become. She speaks of the moon and the clandestine her accompanying stars behold. And she speaks of them, without any given rules nor knowing. And I dedicate the entirety of these words, even my being, to this other woman, so virginal in sense and experienced in devotion. And I would compromise everything, yes everything, to be given more than just this, in a few hours.
In a few hours, I am another being – a simulated machine of burden.
In a few hours, the self turns away from the self. And the moon, the air, the other woman fades away – only to creep in, slowly.
In a few hours.
In a few hours, the other woman has to dematerialize into thin air. Her escape, even her escape – dematerializing into thin air – presents into a tragic metaphor, a sad melancholy between silence and goodbye. For after a week and two extended days of blameless road trips and unhidden romance, we have to go by our usual routes – a routine reasonably left within secrecy and kept by the remembrance of memories.
In a few hours, I become her slave. I become her yes to her arduous list of requests commands. The night will culminate into a common template – thoughts of a needed divorce or, in the Philippine euphemism, annulment. Like the marriage or relationship never existed in the first place. What a relief, the sighing moon would say. But she demands no animate object be expressed in a paragraph devoted to her. Her rules comply for formality and objective reasoning. Words like those are pure rubbish, she would comment. And so, I would not compromise – it still not, for her recollection, in a few hours.
In a few hours, I give her the freedom – the freedom she does not deserve, the emancipation she does not desire. She wants her black flood of flowing hair maneuver against the tight grip of my fist – controlled yet free, like how our rendezvous should have been in the past year and the new cycle that has become. She speaks of the moon and the clandestine her accompanying stars behold. And she speaks of them, without any given rules nor knowing. And I dedicate the entirety of these words, even my being, to this other woman, so virginal in sense and experienced in devotion. And I would compromise everything, yes everything, to be given more than just this, in a few hours.
In a few hours, I am another being – a simulated machine of burden.
In a few hours, the self turns away from the self. And the moon, the air, the other woman fades away – only to creep in, slowly.
In a few hours.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)