EarShatter

For Khey 

I catch a waft of a promise left

Hanging in my room’s darkness.

My damp visage on the bed

forms words

As silence slices memories

 

Of a bus trip to Indang,

Out of my room

Out of my house

The city

And its insanity.

 

I remember it was

a Sunday morning,

a day when children

could run in the sun,

never minding mending

emotional wounds gaping,

her eyes like daggers on my

mind and then awakened by

the conductor three hours

passed and I thought

I could have picked up

 

Words falling from

Your lips

Along the dusty highway

And collect them to give to you

 

If I could have just brought

Uncle’s bolo, rusty but sharp

As the predicament that

 

I was beating a path to your door?

Heart? Soul?

Or am I traversing other fools’

Trails, either dead-end

Or looping

But hoping

 

That the day will come

That they will stop

And won’t have

To walk anymore.