the aftershower season in my room

Once I thought the rain romantic when you came inside and stayed. You lulled me to sleep with the rush of your teardrops, rocked me to wake in the thunder of your voice, held me tight in your dreary blanket of embrace. And all the colors in the walls of my room and the gardens of my pages were spread thin and brushed in mist. You were my world in watercolors, with all our feelings as your paint.

And I never thought I could feel my skin, my bones, my soul dry up again. But I did in the warmth of your departure. Light broke from the window you used to keep locked and all the mist and teardrops that floated for days fell down to a pond an ankle deep. I sat down and looked at my shambled self reflected; I broke it with the splashes of my feet but it stayed to look at me waiting for your blanket of clouds to dissipate. And the vines that climbed across my wall bore flowers brushed in pink and the words that traced my poetry became butterflies and birds and koi. With them I lied down in the pond and waved my arms and legs like a kid in snow.

Today is the brightest day. Today I left everything out to dry.

Tonight I shall sleep in a bed so dry and soft, with the sky of stars as my blanket and the universe as my dreams.


So beautiful. I already did a horrid prose poem on this subject:

What’s the most time you’ve ever spent apart from your favorite person? Tell us about it.

So I guess I had to conceive of something else. What could possibly happen when the love of your life leaves you?

And out went something akin to magic realism, without Marquez’s politics. And I prefer to think of seasons, and those close to Philippine season. The distance you spend away from the person seems to be too bleak a subject anyway: all your thoughts drift away into the presence of the person, all your presence in the place you live in become dreadful in their absence. But couldn’t it be that their absence could produce something more beautiful, something that exposes your mind and memory to something sweet, something thrilling, something that can set you free from the routine pleasures of being with them?

I know I had skipped a day. Currently busy. My head is aching. My mind unstable. But be trying to churn out as many prompt responses as I can. Expect many prose poems to come.

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