there is nothing more we can do now. nothing more
than scintillate in this late, black vastness of snores
beneath a sky that lies bedecked with stars. bedecked
with stars this sky is all that covers us, our hair erect
on napes made shiny by sweat. arms also, chest
& torso, legs & thighs made slippery by love
or what we've made of it, high up on this crest
at an inn in baguio. now all we do is move
to the movement of our breathing, our cadenced
heaving made rhythmic by the traffic of our bodies,
made weary by the static of everyday life. sentenced
to boredom by everyday life, on this bed we finally
further a shared notion of bliss, a kind of peace,
a piece of heaven we used only to aspire for.
while inside this room surrounded by rumors,
we smile to ourselves, then coo, then kiss.
not much need for air-con here, this sphere
of bed & breeze where you & me are mere
ends of a single entity. blessed be this continuity
of skin; hallowed be the blurry boundary
where your body ends & mine begins
which is which, seam & stitch, we just can't
tell anymore. heretofore conjunction seemed
like fruit at the end of a branch of the bent
tree of imagination. & your breasts also,
ripe as mango, mounds as round & full
as moon i swoon on this crest in baguio.
not much we can do past such but mull
over errant facts: no need at all for air-con here,
which is not to imply the cool is complete:
despite friction, abrasion, despite the heat,
bad weather, whatever, we keep going better.
it was the rain, perhaps, that lulled us to sleep
with the lullaby of raindrops, drip-dropping
on lower legarda where our lodging lies. lies
compose the dream that seeps in sleep, sly
untruths that led me to believe i was showering
in silent seclusion when you knocked. the door
i unlocked upon your request, and hurrying
pulled you toward me and thought: the more
we ought to do this, go out on trips and kiss
away doubts, on-off droughts, & bouts
that dragged us down to depths we wish
we hadn't been to before. what brought
us there perhaps we will never understand,
mayhap we won't what mayhem kept us apart
for so long. in time we'll wake & yawn & start
resuming love where quarreling is contraband.
morning, & it's time. past ample goodbyes
to bed & bath we amble fast with our eyes
half-open, hand-in-hand as we hunt for one
station where buses are headed for home.
morning, & it's time. ere getting on the bus
we munch on breakfast & break the sorrow
thru beef & babble. thru beef & babble thus
we break the sorrow of leaving, only to follow
the path of remembering: here was where
you bought your hat, there we got a pizza.
some salabat at some café while we stared
at each other simply, at this giddy barkada
doing videoke while we were having coffee.
but it is mostly the room we miss, the common
bed, synthesis of skin & easy conversation
our own shared space of infinity, intimacy.
© Angelo V. Suárez