’tis what the heart reaps…

The rain makes me want to cry; hearing it splatter on the floor while the leaves sway against the rushing wind. I wonder if the rain is somewhat a collection of other people’s tragedies. Every drop represents every emphatic trauma, every tear spent for some lost expense. It represents every person who has felt pain, shared pain and feared pain. It all comes down in the sky and drops tiny little tears on our faces. This droplet on my knee might’ve been from some child, weeping for his dead father. That droplet on the edge of my chair might’ve been from some woman enraptured in tears upon seeing her lover, after seven years of waiting in grief. I smile at the occuring onslaught of wind and water, swishing and swaying to and fro. Emotionally drenched, I again wipe a tear from my eyes, mixing it with the drops of rain that had gotten to my face and cheeks.

Rain is a good thing.

                   A Prose for Someone Not Here

I sometimes wonder if I was made with five senses
Of which I can feel, hear, taste, smell and see at the same time,
Like reminiscing your soft cheek against mine,
Your carressing hands on my rough palette,
Your pristine name serening my lips,
Your laugh gathering in my lungs,
And the stringent of your smell
Wafting in the arena of my breathlessness.
You made me feel these in a dose of a day.

And I compared these to yours.      

You whose sight turns bleary at the sight of me.                              

You whose touch senses weakness against my skin.
You whose hearing goes deaf at the sound of this sin.
You who tastes sour at every word I say.
You who smells suspicion inside every trepid lie I made.

You said, you’d rather be dead than not                                     

Feel her touch of skin against yours,
And I began to wonder,
Will I also suffer and die in repose,
to someone who I owe nothing but a prose?

              Dingy

It would have been something else,
When your eyes met mine,
               Crystalline as pure amber,
Black as charcoal on barbeque sticks.
I remained in trance with the heavy clamor
                            of your eyes,
Never minding the salty seasoning
           Of crusted potatoes, crusted endeavors.

I tried to look steadily at them,
But it is always my misfortune,
To wander in those spaces of blackness
                      like the straw
On your coffee.

And as I continue to stare at the mysteries
of what lies beneath those
wondrous orbs of Black gulaman,
You tell me that you wish you were somewhere else,
Rather than this dodgy, stinking carinderia,
Eating stale junk food.
And I silently thought at the notion,

We should have been something else.