May iniisip ka?
Ayaw kong sabihin. Baka magkatotoo.
Dahil makulit ka
Kilala kita. Oo, ikaw 'yun: Nagkasalubong na tayo minsan, sa LRT, sa Gotohan, sa kanto ng Aurora at Katipunan. Nagkatinginan tayo. Hindi mo ako kinausap, pero alam ko, nakilala mo rin ako. Kaya ka narito, di ba? Para sabihing, Oo, oo, ikaw nga 'yun. Naaalala kita.
na, mula noong 24 Enero, 2006, ang nakitambay dito
Letter To a Friend Who Had Just Written a Poem for Me
Monday, September 22, 2008
When will we begin to love? we once wrote in a poem we passed between ourselves, lost now, discarded by some girl we had both privately imagined naked and writhing under the power of-- what is it we call it now? Utterance. Bowstring hairs and hungry black eyes then there is a strand, there is a hand I cannot hold. Let me tell you now: I am sitting in a hallway with a borrowed pen and all I can think of is, Maybe we have loved enough. Maybe too much. Earlier I was out to buy beer and there was this sheet from an old calendar keeping in step with me, persistent, iambic. Karmic, maybe, in the way it crested and led my eyes to half-lit alleys, my hands to my pockets, my heart to-- where? There are words I find difficult to hold now: Heart, love. Pen. Now I desire no more from poetry than true feeling, you used to always quote as we fumed at formulas and the nitpicked organicness of this. Have we grown that old? That true feeling is something contrived, distant, not held? Now I desire no more from poetry than silence. And if not that, then the word heart. If not that then flowers. Listen: One day you will pull a book from a shelf and you will find this, brittle and incomplete like some old flower, and you will consider this poetry. Don't. This is just a heart, its throbbing wild, and tremulous, and stifled. These are just lines. This is just a gift, unwrapped, its silence the only thing of value to anyone.