in which the words that I desperately want to utter has choked and has left me gasping for air; I breathe but only to be drowned over and over again. Amdist forced letters and spaces, I still find the solace albeit ephemeral, stolen and candid like a bandit in the wee hours of the night. In the supposition of paying it forward, here’s something to some man who was once–hopes still is–an inspiration. Thank you and happy birthday.


tl;dr: a poem written on the notion of “being in love”, unrequitted love that is. Title read as eleven-eleven P.M. Would love to hear what you guys think and so do chirp in the comments section 🙂



Words will always be just that:

w o r d s

that will never be enough

those three words…

One day, someday

I’ll be over you;

but tonight til


let me love you.

Let me cry in your arms

for I find

peace, just like how





Soon enough


I’m grateful through

the day my eyes close,

through the day

the words still cut

but do not bleed.

Not anymore.



Indak ng mga nota ng panahong nawaglit ka sa aking piling.

kasi ako’y naging biktima ng pagkakataon: isang pangungutya ng pagkakataon. ako’y patawarin, ito’y dinggin.


sa hangin na dumuduyan

sa bawat ugoy

ng mga salitang

p a r i t o ‘ t – p a r o o n

na umukit sa mga bituin

sa langit; iaalay ko’ng lahat

makita ko lamang

ang ngiti

na umiindak

sa’yong matatam-is

na mga labi: bukas,

bukas nang muli

ang mga brasong

sabik na sabik

sa init ng ‘yong pag-ibig.


minsan pa’y

ibabaling ang tingin…





I Gave You

and you’re always in my mind;

the window to your world gives a glimpse

that I selfishly want for me.

I believe you helped me—thus,

I give you my heart. my soul.

and the blood rushes to my cheeks:

the picture of you in your white

wedding dress, etched.

I just want that feeling,

just once more.

Tell me what to do.

I’ll be your man and we’ll fly high.

And even when you’re feeling


know that my wishes have come true.




Wide-eyed frantic stare;

Loomed above the streets below

are busy—

Let’s hope tonight will come.

Eager bodies and restless souls:

Enslaved by their own. On their own.

Vaguely, I only made out

the commons we had.

Wasted time.

Wasted opportunities.

were not.

I bought the wrong ticket.

And you left.

Who am I not to be still


by your beauty?

You eased the pain I’m feeling;

I wish for you to never grow old.

Opened arms and loving smile—

Closed, calm eyes:

I hope for the night to come again.

I would love to hate everything about you…

except that your almond eyes speak more than your lovely mouth.

except that your nose isn’t real but it doesn’t get long, way better than real but could lie a thousand years.

except that your pink, plump, luscious lips are always filled of better judgment. For others—always thinking about others.

except that your ears will always yearn for that good music you long to give but has been given by you already, even from the start.

except that your rosy cheeks that contain the lone dimple that discards the abnormality of itself.

except that your beautiful long slender fingers fondle the piano and saxophone so well.

except that your goddamned of a body is perfectly sculptured, it’s inhumanly possible not to be devoured noticed.

except you’re too goddamn of a selfless idiot. I hate every fucking selfish bastards instead.

except that you’re an angel born on a lovely rainy day. Definitely sent from up above.


except that I love you too much that it hurts. I hate myself instead.





Ethereality of Mortality

Those three words are said too much; too much certainly, that they may have lost its own candor—innocence even. They might… No scratch that. They’ll never be enough. And thus, I shall negate everything that’ll come out from your mouth. Everything that’ll escape between your lips—the very same with pink, plump flesh that I yearn for. And the very same where I have seen that lured mine even with full cognizance that behind it were pair of beautiful, long fangs. I let myself be bitten.

I shall address the familiarity the image is giving me: the contrast of how saturated the picture despite the wryness radiating from it.

And that’s how polar our personalities can be. Indeed, you’re due west, and I’m on a straight line heading east. And we may travel along the equatorial line, the tropic of cancer or the tropic of Capricorn—it won’t matter. For as long as the Earth rotates on its axis we’re bound, destined even, to meet each other again.

As the turtle races towards the sun, with it shall be the length of my loving of you. I shall whistle of a happy tune: no one shall know I’m afraid and lost without the nearness of you.

As the water flows down the river or run deep in the vastness of the seas, with it shall be the gentleness and tenderness of being with you.


As the fire blazes it ferocity shall come with it the burning passion and desire to love you over and over again.



Part Tri: Kahel ang Araw

Isang panaginip na hindi natutulog,

mga sandaling mintis sa’yo ang dulog.

Sa pagpihit ng hangin at

hampas ng alon,

isang himig ang aking pabaon

ang pangarap—ko ay. ang.

makapiling ka.

Maraming panahon ang ginugol:

tagaktak ng pawis,

sapilitang pagdilat ng mata,

pag-inda ng panunuya, at;

paglaban sa pag-iisa.

Binawi at binaliwala ang lahat

ng makita kang masaya.

Hindi maituturing na


sapagkat ito’y isang


Matuto ring lumipad;

Ang pag-aantay ay sapat.



–Mga Konsepto ng Pag-Ibig ni Aling Bebang, isang trilohiya

“기다릴게, hermit.”

Part Tu: Bughaw ang Tubig

Kathang isip, o aking iniibig,

batid kong malayo kahit pa

sa panaginip.

Maikling katanungan, bukas pa

malalaman ang daan;

‘di makatulog ng mahimbing—

patungo saan?

Nangungusap na talukap:

takpan ang hiwagang bumalot

sa katawan;

ihahatid ng mga pakpak,

sa pampang na may galak.

Minsan pa’y sabik sa’yong haplos,

Mistulang Hangin:

pinagkamalang daplos.

Ngunit sapat na nga ba ang lahat,

o ang abono’t binhi ay salat?



–Mga Konsepto ng Pag-Ibig ni Aling Bebang, isang trilohiya

Part Wan: Puti ang Langit

sa ilalim ng taimtim na dasal,

bihag ng mga sandaling nakuha

sa mga titig mo;

sa ugong ng tugtog—liwaliw sa

galaw ng iyong katawan.

Ilang ulit na beses kong

pinagdaanan: sa huli’y hantong

sa kabilugan ng buwan.

Isang bahaghari na tila’y ‘di


o kaya’y isang ibong matayog

ang paglipad.

Pagmamahal na nadarama:

tunay nga bang talaga?

O isang magandang panaginip

lang ang lahat…

–Mga Konsepto ng Pag-Ibig ni Aling Bebang, isang trilohiya