Radio humming a
new-age jazz in
a wet slope alleyway
after two attempts
you finally lit your
nearly-crooked cigarette stick
drizzle came to a halt
I walked towards where
you fished a tiny frame
out your pocket—
I saw how your smile
somehow caused the rain
to completely vanish
I took two steps back
before turning away
and remembered—
I am not Rizal's moth
drawn towards the flame
that led to its demise
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoezjaI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
