The horizon
painted loneliness...

Your words
are fossils...

The Soft Brown color
of your eyes...

Is your sky still crimson?
Does Manila draw a lonely Azalea...

What did
the sky...

Empty hallways,
ghosts on a wine cellar...

You've forgotten all about me --
windmills and cornfields in between...

Who am I
to keep believing...

Oh, my closest friend,
take me back to the heydays of our poetry...