Oh, I thought I would find you
in the deserts of South Africa
or in the eastern plateaus Australia,
I might have found you
in the sub-urbs of Manila
or in the farthest places I can't utter,
but there aren't roadsides
where I haven't been
nor willowed roads
I haven't written poems about,
there aren't alleyways
I haven't heard your onomatopoeia from
nor forests or grasslands
I haven't seen your afterimages in,
and yet every unfortunate turn
and street sign,
every invasive dark road
and avenue,
they don't seem to make meet you,
you still slip away from my grasps,
from my senses,
like transient fireworks in the
polluted night sky,
or whalesharks
in the solemn waters of Boracay...
And I am just your
average poet from Manila,
who would write about the trains
you are afraid to ride,
the trees you have ever hugged,
and the dogs you have owned,
because my poetic heart beats
only for you,
no matter what your geography is,
no matter where you are right now.
Hopefully, tomorrow,
in the place where the seas
seem to meet the skies,
