It is on these sorts of days, that I remember.
When the sky is the color of soot and the air is weighted with smog,
where its not yet raining,
but petrichor grasps to our arms and clings to the individual strands of hair.
When the fields are woven in gold,
soft and bright beneath my rough dirty toes.
When I don't hear the occasional rattling vehicle,
and the faraway streets are bare and soulless once again.
On these days that I ride on the spinning two tires of an old blue bicycle,
singing empty rhythms and dreary metaphors to a collage of fallen leaves.
It's these sort of days that I rediscover forgotten whispers hidden between the cushions of the couch
and echoed by the running water hitting the porcelain sink.
When the photographs with their hollow eyes,
travel through the halls like phantoms mirroring the mind
and imprinting the walls with blank shadows.
I always remember these sort of days.
BINABASA MO ANG
Slip of the Tongue ~ A Collection of Poetry
Poetry"But I don't want comfort. I want poetry. I want danger. I want freedom. I want goodness. I want sin." ~Aldous Huxley
