Yes, I still hear your voice
echoing in those former alleyways.
They've memorized you
the way I can recite the syllables of your name.
Are you still how you were before?
Does the afternoon sunlight in Cubao
still linger in your clothes?
Like your favorite scents
or the aroma of coffee you used to have
when you tire yourself from work?
I can still recall the way you walk—
sunburnt road and April skies,
your turned back smelled like roses.
And I am no good—
I still search for your face in the crowd,
still hoping I'd come across you
in the train platform.
Nothing just makes sense without you.
We're more than peripheral visions
and parallel lines now.
But I can still remember those former places
and former people—
the times it was as if every memory
could last forever.
