your fingertips tracing my lips
let you know that i was real. we were
embracing under the blankets. i was
pressing my body close to you and
breathing in your scent of sweat and perfume,
reminding me of the feel of your arms
when we first danced, reminding me of the trip to Ilocos,
rolling on cement floors until daylight had
seeped through the curtains, reminding me of
sleeping in Kuya Dado’s jeep with the windows down
shivering, forsaking clocks and later calendars. as the
morning dawned, i knew the city below pulsed
with madness and malice. i knew
i might lose you to meaningless faces of
strangers and false friends. i knew
there may be nights of sleeping alone
without your warmth, without your lips.
someday there may be a wedding, maybe
a child or two. there may be screaming
fights over money and other women, maybe
over in-laws. maybe you’ll stop whispering
my name in the dark and someday i might
cease to be real to you. i was
drawing the curtains so the light
didn’t wake you. i was lying down
embracing you under the blankets,
ignoring the phone ringing in the living room,
cherishing the languor of hips and
fingertips tracing my lips, i was
real to you.
