*This poem is part of the second issue of the Pedantic Pedestrians, a beginning group of young writers from Baguio City, Philippines striving to bring out poetry and literature in general from the academy, bars and cafes and into the streets and the wider public.

Let me begin by saying:

I am not yet tired of metaphors.

Sometimes, you are the voice of

Norah Jones – creeping under my

tragedies at night.

Sometimes, you are the folds in

the bedsheet, the thing I arrange

most, I touch last before I


Sometimes you are the wholesome

burning at the tip of a cigarette,

flickering and fading, fading and

dying, like the moon at dawn,

yet still listening to my belated songs

of sadness.

And you are an alarm clock ringing

sometimes, pulling me off the bed,

the vague meaningfulness of sleep,

the anxious escape from the ants on the floor

and the realizations of all literature,


I wake everyday because you are.


Once, we walked together amidst the

wetness of streets, under the fated

occurrence of treacherous nights.

Your pauses were ends of sentences,

Mayan predictions, apocalyptic ghosts.

Which I accompany with my own

fakely innocent breaths. There was

air around us. It

was the

only place where

we meet.

Sometimes, I dare to feel the spaces

Between your fingers, and guess the

Shampoo you used in the morning.

Sometimes it felt like you were beside me,

in 10pm nights where gaps are

forever to be understood.

I tried to make up metaphors

For the stillness, the nebulous nearness,

but as all science and religions have seen,

there was only, nebula; always:


Always: space.


So I turn to metaphors.

So I always fail

So I always fail