This is the hour we are farthest

from God, isn’t it. But we

have long stopped believing

in Him. Only heaven – this. Ours,


now. Since it seems we

are stuck, how about

you tell me what you know, and

how we got here, for I

am too afraid to ask?


Say then, something

about distance, and how someone

once told you to never

look back, but you did. Otherwise,


I would have remained

a strange face in a classroom

you never really belonged to.


Stay still, when, if

we finally run out of words.

Try again, pull me in, as if

you’ve always had.


And later on, forget —

like you always do.


18th June, Monday. Written on a bus headed to Cubao, during a traffic jam from hell. Putangina, late na ‘ko.

Yes, for K.

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