earth - 0019

mood: apathetic

Dancing With Him

November 6, 2000

            We both learned from our Religion teachers, vehemently spouting the teachings of the Good Book, that boys can only like girls, and girls can only like boys. My grandmother would tell me over and over, forcing me to listen to those Catholic radio programs with her, forcing me to read the Bible and her religious magazines, that anything else is wrong. But I never thought of my feelings of like as wrong. They shouldn’t be wrong. God cannot condemn so flippantly.

I like you Renzo. Not in the way that I like eating lunch out of those Chinese take-out boxes. Not in the way that I like listening to the theme songs of Fushigi Yugi or Samurai X over and over again. Not in the way that I like our other classmates in 6-Agoncillo.

You’re so quiet most of the time. With your eyes intently staring at the board during class, your left hand mechanically writing notes in your notebook, not even bothering to initiate idle conversation with your seatmate; so unlike the other boys in our class. You open up to few people. Maybe that’s why I like you. You’re shy. When I saw you talking with PB once, him with his oh-so rebellious personality, I witnessed your other side. I could never have imagined you as lively, but you were exactly that with him. Seeing that made me smile and I wanted to know more about you. I barely ever get the chance to do so though.

Patrick told me last Friday that he suspected that I like you. He told me that it was so obvious in how I would look at you. I asked him if there was anything wrong with me liking you. Funny how he said he really didn’t care, that he just saw it and inferred. I wonder then, in what way do I look at you that made Patrick notice? Do you notice how I look at you?

During lunch, Tim brought me to the washroom and showed me pictures of Troy Montero in this tabloid he picked up from somewhere. He was gushing so much about how attractive Troy was, with his chiseled physique and manly face. I knew that Tim was gay since last summer, during the slumber party at his house when he revealed his collection of pictures of naked men stored in his computer. Timmy and I could not take our eyes off the monitor. Nikko was trying his best to look away, but he still stole glimpses. When Tim’s sister knocked on the door, he quickly unplugged the computer, and we all tried our hardest to compose ourselves as he opened the door for her. Is it true what they say about birds of a feather? I didn’t find Troy Montero hot though. He’s too old. You however, I find quite cute.

Sincerely, Adrian Carl Pescador

June 5, 2001

Out of all the cute guys in our class, I think you’re the cutest, with your adorable hair, your soulful eyes, your big nose, your pink lips, and your white skin. Today isn’t the first time I saw you though. I saw you earlier this year, when we were both still in grade six and in different classes. Timmy, my friend and your former classmate, dragged me to your classroom one day. He was looking for his notebook and I was leaning on the wall by the door, rhythmically tapping my foot and yelling at him to hurry up. Bored out of my mind and tired of watching Timmy clumsily make his way around the mess of bags, papers, and desks, I started looking around. On the bulletin board, I saw your picture; you posing for the camera with a half-sneer, half-smile plastered on your face and still managing to look good. Something about you just grabbed me. And it was just your picture I was staring at. What more if I would see you in the flesh? I heard Timmy approaching, presumably having given up his search, and asked him who you were, my eyes still on yours. With a grunt he half-heartedly snorted your name, and then playfully asked me while poking my arm with his stubby fat index finger if I liked you. I quickly said no. There was no way I was going to fall for just a picture.

But now that I’ve seen you face to face, I’ve come to realize that that picture barely did you any justice. I have to wonder if it was destiny that I saw your picture, had no idea who you were then, and now we’re classmates, with lots of opportunities for us to get to know each other more. To be perfectly honest though, I find your name so funny, and your nickname even funnier. How does one named Felicisimo Agas III end up with Junsi anyway?

–Adrian

May 10, 2002

            Funny isn’t it? When they posted our names for the sections, I really thought I would end up in Section O. Seeing my name on the Section A list left me in such a state of facial dystopia: my eyebrows furrowed, squinting at the list, my cheeks flushed red, teeth bared in a wide almost maniacal smile. Now imagine how much that deranged expression mutated hundred-fold, when I spotted twenty-six names above mine was yours. I nearly hurled out of utter disbelief.

            An infuriated voice inside me screamed over and over in my head, “Here’s to four more years of COMPLETE SILENCE!” and “NO WAY! NO MORE! WASN’T ALL THAT ENOUGH YET!?!”  I was imploding, and at the same time just a slight provocation away from exploding, as I walked away from the bulletin board, berating God mentally for his wicked humor.

            But then, hope set in. And thoughts of finally talking to each other, finally recognizing each other’s presence, finally communicating, invaded my mind. Of one day during class, you approaching me in the corridor, hands clasped taking me behind the massive boulder on the cliff overlooking the Loyola Grand Villas not far from the classrooms but still secluded, and just us looking into each other, sharing a conversation.

AIDS

August 4, 2005

            How different would life have been if you stayed here, instead of leaving for Switzerland after Grade 6? We would have been classmates in Grade 7, and my feelings for you from the past year would have carried over. And we would most likely have become classmates in High School. Who knows, I would probably still like you right now. And even if you won’t reciprocate the exact same feelings of like, we would still be friendly or civil. We’d still, at least, talk to each other. And I wouldn’t be suffering through this silent hell.

Your 6-Agoncillo classmate, Adrian

March 31, 2006

       Four years. And then one night ends it all. High School is over.

I was hoping that Junsi and I would talk then, after five years of silence sometimes soothing, mostly agonizing. We didn’t, of course.

You don’t know what I feel for him. None of you can grasp even a microscopic particle of it. You all see it as just some over-extended crush. Maybe it’s because you’re one of his close friends that you refuse to look into it further. Maybe it’s because you don’t care to try. Nevertheless, there’s so much more to what I feel for him than what you know or suspect.

Lamenting about Junsi is not the purpose of my letter, however. This is all you. Sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t our classmate, if he didn’t exist period, my stray feelings would probably have been directed to you. You have the looks, although he still outmatches you there comparably. But more than just that, it’s your character I find most attractive. In how you successfully led us as class president, in how you tried to remedy the division in the class, in how you carry yourself with simultaneous confidence and modesty, and in how you could easily converse with me. Maybe I'm just idealizing you. But still, maybe I should have tried.

When we met after graduation, our families deciding to celebrate dinner in the same Chinese restaurant, my mind instantly conjured thoughts of fated encounters. Stupid I know. But with so many possibilities, how tiny were the chances that we would meet? Can’t it mean something? It should mean something.

Can’t you be the one?

~adrian~

April 21, 2006

“Kelan lalabas ang mga barkada pics nung graduation?”

“Maybe next week. Get them by then.”

And that was it. Five years of angst, of depression, of hoping for nothing, of complete quiet, wrapped up by a dialogue amounting to fourteen words and lasting six seconds. I imagine, several months from now, one dark night illuminated by countless streetlamps, headlights, and taillights, with Nikko driving me, traversing the maze-like arrangement of alleys and avenues from Greenhills to Gateway, and the two of us reminiscing.

“Five years and what? All for absolutely nothing. So empty.”

“Finally!” or “You just realized that now?”

And yet, there is still so much unsaid. When our ‘conversation’ ended, you left me in a mess of emotional and mental shambles. That could not have been all there was to it. Five years of so much and so little cannot just end with something so insignificantly significant. Especially when I looked up and saw you standing by the doorway, staring at something from a distance, and hesitating to leave. You and I know that there’s so much more.

pescador

September 10, 2006

You were the first person to talk to me in college. And I didn’t even understand what you said. I came in too early that first day last June, sat on a chair of the second row directly in front of the AC, and kept myself busy by reading Stephen King before class would start and everyone else would enter the classroom. When everyone entered, you opted to sit down one seat away from me, and as everyone else started picking their seats, nobody chose the desk between us. And that would pave the way for moments such as one boring morning when you tapped me on the shoulder pointed to the board and asked me to read the word that you could not decipher next to ‘mutual,’ which was ‘desire.’ Or when we both heard a plane fly by, I made a sick comment about it crashing in a few seconds, and you made a sound like a tire losing air from a small puncture hole that was meant to deride me.

It’s so surreal, how I started liking you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are not my type. You’re too Chinese (in appearance and breeding), and yet something about you made me fall for you. You have this strange kind of charm. It’s in how you question or rebut every statement of Sir Danny’s, how you find depth in every detail of the lesson, how you speak with open confidence. I find that quite appealing, to put it politely.

So far, I can count on my fingers and toes the few instances that we have spoken to each other. I hope we could talk more. We’re seatmates already, and I don’t make the most out of it? Won’t you help me shatter my painfully shy frozen topiary of a self? I think you’re a very intelligent and interesting person, and hopefully, if we get to know each other more, you’ll hopefully see me in the same way as well.

Your seatmate, Adrian

October 28, 2006

My friend told me of the time when you auditioned for their singing group KINEMA. For every note that the conductor played, you’d sing a note several bars and spaces lower. It was like the conductor was the one auditioning, matching his note-playing to your horrid singing. You’re practically a punch line in KINEMA for any joke that has to do with being tone deaf and not making the cut. Mr. Sy, you are such an unattractive loser.

Mr. Pescador

January 18, 2007

I’m back. How pathetic, right? I think this was inevitable though, I can never be truly over you anyway. Maybe I’m one of those people who after every failed relationship, rebounds to the same guy. Except of course that we’re not really talking about relationships here, but one-sided infatuation [cold shoulder defense mechanism against rejection jump-from-the-top-of-Prince-David-Condominium-after plunging into that bottomless abyss referred to as love too fast] kind of failures. It happens every time. I detect that a prospective crush is leading nowhere, I try to get over him by any means necessary, and then I start crushing on you again. Or rather, crashing back to you.

But I realized something while lying down on my bed one ungodly Sunday morning, staring at the genre-traversing titles on my shelf (books that you probably never even heard of, cretin), and fantasizing about licking your titillatingly gorgeous nose and equally enticing lips. I have a problem. I am in love with the idea of a perfect man. The perfect man who will sweep me off my feet, who will kiss me and make love to me so feverishly, who will excite me physically, mentally, and emotionally, who only exists in my screwed head. And with that idea of a man, I attach the faces of men whom I fall for. It doesn’t matter who, what, or how they truly are, once I glue them to that idea, they become perfect. It’s the reason why getting over love, for me, is such an arduous task.

Hopefully, with that knowledge, I can view the guys whom I get infatuated with, more realistically. Maybe I can get over you then, once and for all, for both our sakes.

I severely doubt that I ever will though.

…

And I have absolutely no idea why I had to bare myself to you this way. Maybe it’s easier for me to express what I feel in writing this letter to you. The way it was so much easier for me to write most of what I felt for the other guys whom I thought, I ‘loved,’ instead of confronting them. Knowing that unlike an awkward confrontation, I could be more honest in writing. Trusting the fact that none of the letters will ever reach them; that once I’m done writing this, I’ll crumple it, tear it to pieces, then burn it. How pathetic, right? I have never once said to any guy I liked, that I liked them. I mean, the only reason you found out was because I told a friend, who told your friend, who then told you. And because of that, you hate me. But you also barely give a shit about me at the same time. So I actually hate me more. Hah.

Maybe I should keep this shitty letter, a reminder of my dismal track record in love. To open the file and read it sometime in the future, and mock myself for my utter fucking motherfucking shit godfuckingdammit bullshit horseshit shit shit shit dickheaded ^!#&*%#&*% @$&^@&*$^&*@^ &@$^&*@^$&*^* ^@$&*(^@(*&(^)%^)#& stupidity.

…

Then again, I’m sure there will be more faux-loves and pointless crushes. And plenty more unsent letters. I need no souvenirs from the lonely land of love-unrequited misery, when I’m already a permanent resident.

Adrian

February 14, 2007

remember this? it happened during the first few weeks of the second sem, when i was still seated at the first row and you were sitting directly behind me. the discussion was about the evolution of the english language, or something like that. you commented on how english-speakers then and now use the language very differently, or rather, use different versions of the language. like, how victorian people would refer to something repulsive as “absolutely vile,” and people nowadays would just shriek “how icky!” i felt that what you said, at least the “how absolutely vile” line, held a certain je ne sais quoi, that i just had to write it down on my notebook. but, I wasn’t infatuated with you then.

during the first sem, i was sorta building towards a crush on you. i saw your claims of being asexual as an open invitation. and you seemed like a pretty fair prospect. and then, while explaining your research paper to the class about the aesthetics of beauty, you just had to remark that you were “in no position to judge the beauty of a man;” i.e. you’re still straight. that was like infanticide to my just-blooming feelings. after that, i decided to mostly ignore you. obviously, all that changed.

it was mostly that performance. bang the drum baby, and all that jazz. us playing two characters who were flirting to fill the loneliness, how perfect was it? all those rehearsals with you caressing my soft cheek with your strong but delicate hand, and i remember truly feeling. my heart melting, shattering, jumping, collapsing, fluttering, breaking, exploding at every instance of skin contact. my friends find it quite funny. they say i’m some other kind of method actor, still in character, still desiring you.

the reason behind the crush eludes me. maybe the timing was right; around that time i was still getting over another crash. maybe i just couldn’t help myself, what with all those moments of staged intimacy. maybe it was you, maybe you’re mr right now. or perhaps, and more logically, maybe it’s all me. me and my needy heart, always searching for something to fill the emptiness even just temporarily.

i remember so many wasted opportunities. all those times when we would cross paths in hallways. i’d subtly glance at you, waiting for you to acknowledge my presence. you’d avoid seeing me, by bowing slightly to inspect the ground you walk on, or by looking at something else far from my direction. we could have greeted each other, but we didn’t. 

not even the practices for “the way we live” and “i’m sad but i’m not gay” were made the most of. and that was entirely my fault. i could feel that you were opening up slightly, and i still put up a pretense of apathy and bitchiness to cover my shyness and anxiety given those very intimate circumstances. of you teaching me to dance in a way that would allure you, wrapping your soft and powerful hands around my waist, your hips swaying with mine to an imaginary rhythm. i could barely stop blushing. and i wish that i wasn’t looking down the whole time we were doing that. i should’ve looked up to see your face. to get a glimpse of how you felt in that situation.

and during the act, i was so filled with longing. in front of an audience, on the stage, doing what we rehearsed quite a number of times. i didn’t want it to end. i didn’t want us to be just acting. but our scene passed, and the performance ended. i was relieved and happy. no, not really. i was dreading how the following days would be. back to ignoring each other? no more please.

am i being too selfish for wanting? i don’t know anymore. i think i’m assuming too much. i’m just wishing. i want to know you more. and i want something out of all this. even a platonic friendship. won’t you say something? anything? should i even send this letter? maybe we should’ve kissed.

-          the guy who listened to stories at Cine Café-

Adrian Carl Pescador (4/18/2007 9:30:06 PM): Before you do anything, please hear me out first. What I am about to say to you requires a lot of tolerance and patience. And I need for you not to freak out, at least not just yet.

Adrian Carl Pescador (4/18/2007 9:30:11 PM): I don’t know if it has been obvious, but I kind of like you. Please don’t stop reading. I cannot really put into words the circumstances by which this happened. It just did. And to be perfectly honest, I have no idea as to what I am to achieve by telling you this. Maybe it’s a form of emotional purgation.

Adrian Carl Pescador (4/18/2007 9:30:17 PM): All this is terribly impromptu. I feel like there’s so much more I want to say about it. But I can’t form the words. And maybe it’s for the best. I know that there is no chance that you will reciprocate my feelings. I just really need to get this all out.

Adrian Carl Pescador (4/18/2007 9:30:23 PM): If you choose to reply harshly, I don’t know whether I should request you not to, or if I should encourage you to. Quite frankly, I’m clueless as to which will be heavier on my heart. Although, instinct tells me you won’t.

Adrian Carl Pescador (4/18/2007 9:30:29 PM): There. I’m done. If you read through it, thank you and please forgive me for having to put you through this lengthy and pointless speech of mine. If you didn’t (and you obviously wouldn’t read this part if you didn’t), well, at least I said my piece. And maybe I can just get over you already so that all will be back to normal.

Adrian Carl Pescador (4/18/2007 9:32:02 PM): And please, don't tell anyone else about this.

mood: aggravated

Happy Birthday Man

    As a gift I would give you myself as The tipsy blonde bombshell In a studded sheer second-skin column Oozing sex and sensual appeal Perhaps that woman of your dreams Whoever she is Singing that greeting If only I could Happy birthday to you And you and just you

    It is a non-existent gift Rather it is my deepest Most desperate wish When I close my eyes Blow the lit candles on my cake 25 days from yours For a split-second I am almost there Me as that skinny girl With long straight hair A pretty perfect face Womanly body breasts curves And your arms wrapped around me Us comfortably in love Until I open my eyes To a cheap sponge cake White icing and pink jelly Letters spelling “Happy Birthday” to me And me and just me

mood: blah

escapes

quarter to nine

pm says the watch

lying on the endtable

beside my bed

the sun begins to set

like an omelet in the horizon

mauve sky ahead

outside my window

right on time

take off the raggedy outfit

i wear inside

the tattered tiedyed pajamas

given by a relative

from somewhere ages ago

put on historyless clothes

new blue jeans and a plain white shirt

also a leather jacket black

hide in the left pocket

a lighter and two cigarettes

for the cruel cold

in the living room

of the 700 dollar a month apartment

mother sits on the couch

eyes glued to betty cracker on the tv

cooking up fictional decadence 

sigh americana and the proverbial dream

mothers sickest delusion

she sees me as i head to the door

and i stop

i move my raised index finger

in a circular motion counterclockwise

she nods permission

to my nightly ritual

of utter futility

walking to draw inspiration in

secretly merely an excuse to smoke

out the front door

the only door to outside

step by step

walking on the sidewalk

passing by a headless white doll

sewn linen featherstuffed

alone in a brown cardboard box

behind it the ugly graffiti

spraypainted by some delinquent 

on the wall

of the out of business thai diner

high prices few patrons

a remnant of my sad sad eighteenth

near a year ago

thai takeout and a cupcake

no guests no mess

continue walking hunched

darkness unforeboding comes

fearing the few cars that travel through

headlights like warning signals

of a hick of a nigger of a spic

of a radical racist with a gun

a driveby me the victim

gangs tattoos and blood

pure hate for the  chingchonging chink

nothing ever happens

thank god

for race tolerance not so much

but for the shade of night and indifference

walk on the grey cement

light the first stick

orange glow and swirling smoke

shards of glass 

from a broken beer bottle on the road

zooming of cars

and the night sounds

background noise

to the workings in my mind

bodily movements turn mechanical

no longer caring for my shivering fingers

surrendering to the superiority of thought

words and phrases

lines a poem in my head 

seeing just a boy in my mind's eye then

remembering the many hims

i would rather forget 

faces that pillage and rape my thoughts

alas another unwritten poem vanishes

defeated by the persistence of obsession

and his image

drop the filter of the finished stick

stub out the embers

light the second cigarette

and in the

starless

moonless

blackness

whitewash so return

what happened to never turning back

escape is only granted

to those who know well

what they desire

en - and

what they do not

walk back home

tomorrow night

might be it

though subconsciously

i know

it shall not be

still, maybe

some other day

i shall start walking

and neverever 

and simply disappear

forever 

mood: amused

Emma’s Victorian Romance

             A white english tea rose named emma feels her lover’s feelers, tickled pink blush. She moves daintily away from her lover to face the sun, not wanting to be so easily won over. Her persistent lover moves accordingly, wanting to feel emma, wanting to caress emma, wanting to penetrate the crevices within emma’s soft, tender, moist, petals, wanting to sensually pleasure emma. She closes her petals, virginal as her color, wanting but not succumbing to the pleasure her lover offers. Her lover pecks her a light kiss and flies away, awaiting the next day of more coquettish behavior. 
             The flower never feels her lover again, who was plainly swatted by an annoyed passerby. The same passerby would then proceed to pluck the flower from her colorful threshold among other colorful damsels. The same passerby would cut short the flower’s stem, drop her into an ornate vase, smell her fragrance and admire her beauty when he passes her displayed in his sitting room, and throw her out when she shows signs of wilting, replacing the flower with another one, much younger, more beautiful, fresher.

mood: irate

sinisindihan ang palda                                              
ng kanyang traje de boda

mood: gloomy

ode to one

as

a 

      l one 

as v

i

l

l

a s

,

a shy b l ack speck on a wh i te p l ane stretch i ng pr i st i ne 
i nf i n i ty

then

grey
     
      l one l

      
      i

      nes

streets fu

      l

      l

of face

         l

     ess

peop l e

wa

      l

      k i ng

end

      l

      ess

      l

      y

no

one

recogn i zab l e

 
              ,

hudd l ed

     i

     n a

spot

                        i

aband

one

d

mood: cranky

                   mula sa bangin  

                                           ,

                                           n

                                           a

                                           h

                                           u

                                           l

                                           o

                                           g

   a       o

                                           k                                              
                   hindi mo ako sinalo, pero ngumingiti pa rin ako.

   dahil binuksan mo ang aking mga mata.

                                          sa katotohanan.

                        ginising mo ako, mula sa bangungot,

                                 na pinapatay ako sa sarap,

                                    ng pagmamahal sa wala. 

mood: curious

babae

buwan-buwan,

buwan-buwan,

tinitingnan ko ang kalangitan sa gabi,

ang mga tala, iba’t-ibang hugis

ang binubuo nila,

at ang buwan, iba’t-ibang mukha,

mukha ng buwan.

kumikislap sa akin

ang mga tala,

at ako ay

napapangiti parang

mukha ng buwan

minsan ang ngiti ko.

at nginingitian ko rin sila,

tinatapat ang kislap ng mga

ngipin ko, sa kislap ng

tala.

tapos

wala na

hindi ko sila nais angkinin.

hindi ko sila nais abutin.

gusto ko lang silang tingnan.

ibang usapan din naman ang buwan.

gusto ko ang buwan.

ang mga mukha ng buwan,

bawat buwan

umiiba para sa akin.

ngunit iisa lamang,

parehong buwan

buwan-buwan.

mood: contemplative

BANGUNGOT

Kabalyerong makisig,                                             

Sa mundo kong madilim,                                      
Mestisong panaginip,                                   

mood: drained

dead song

a sea is all i see

breathtakingly so as i

gasp for air

that is no longer there

bleak dark

deep
blue
quiet

it would be better

if you were still alive ariel

so we could sing about

memories forgotten

forged on the surface fathoms

away

alas

ariel you are foam

and i have no true song to sing

dancing is all i do

or it looks like i dance

thrashing is such a painful word

the cold cools my skin

but my insides still burn

i drown

my mouth opens

and i am flooded

my screams are

my song is

muted

mood: content

In Minutes

10 minutes ago

He was playing poker

In the cafeteria
Stinking fumes
Spices
Sweat
Hot crowded

With friends whose names

He doesn’t care to remember

But he still does

Blame his

Flash

Photographic memory

Boy B, Girl A, Boy C

In his mind, modesty

Never existed, he praises himself

In third person

Praises from another

Voice

From the same mind

Looking at his cards

Red diamonds

Ace,

King, Queen, Jack,

Ten, he wins his third hand

He is so good

As his friends deal again

He stands goodbye

Whoever you are

8 minutes ago

She was walking the path

Carrying like Atlas

The weight of the world

On her small frame to see

Her boyfriend of a year in October

Kermit’s too nice

She thinks

They meet

Talk

Love, no love,

Love, no

It’s over

Kermit tells her to do 
What makes her happy

In her mind, Kermit is

Not a relationship

Person

Neither is she

She swims in the Nile

Kermit stares at her

With blank eyes

Like a lifeless frog would

Pinned on a wax bed

Three-chambered heart

Bleeding red

Sliced open

She kisses goodbye

Whoever you are

5 minutes ago

Her father was on

The phone

Family dinner tonight

Barely listening

Mindlessly replying

Okay every few words

Thinking more about

The pebbles scattered

In the parking lot

Wounding her shoes

Hurting her feet

She is her father’s princess

And the pea

Her father’s

Wedding anniversary

Celebration tonight

To her mother

The woman he impregnated with her

Three

Years prior to the marriage

She strokes her abdomen

Seventeen years old

Four weeks

The bump is growing

In her mind, history

Isn’t repeating itself

She is aborting

The one generation cycle

Her father’s voice is gone

She presses red goodbye

Whoever you are

Red digits blaring
Behind the clear glass
On the mind's clock 

Minutes pass, minutes go

With them or

Without

mood: chipper

Sixteenth Rose

and i stare
            at him, who looks
                        so much like
                        angelo.
the same unkempt jet-black silk threads of hair
              slight eyebrows powerful masculine
              gentle slits of eyes dark like water
              sloping pointed nose humbly regal
              thin peach lips begging to be tasted
the same face
              structure of
              muscle and bone
on a canvas of ultimately unifying mocha skin.
                                                                     still,                         
                                                                     a different portrait is painted.

my eyes never leave
him, even as i dance
with the debutante;

            wishing that he would, by chance,
                        look

                        to my direction and our gazes would
                        lock

                        and stay 
                        that way

                        the rest of the evening

                        until he

                                                                      finally

                                                                      approaches me and asks

                                                                                              for this

                                                                                                       dance.

mood: blank

DEAFENING

outside sounds like a war zone.
machinegun blasts, rockets being fired, mob uproar, blitzkrieg cacophony. 
audio mirage.

I sneak out through the front door of the house – inside

My aunt is sleeping,

So are my cousins,

Comfortably on their own soft beds – To see what is happening.

Lights, shimmering lightshows lasting for mere seconds. Projectiles aimed at the heavens, lit, shot, exploding, resounding through the suburbs before fading to nonexistence,

background noise for the celebration.

I look up, and see

only the moon,

barely visible behind a cloud;

there are no real stars,

just dotted radiance,

illuminating the black sky.

The sun still shines on my mother’s side of the world,

an earlier today.

I glance at my watch, beeping
black digits blinking 
12:00
Around me, all noise increases in volume.

The bangs, the shouts, jubilation.

Across the street, a little boy

and his older brother are helping each other light the fireworks,

their mother watches, smiling from a distance.

They see me, standing by myself. They wave

Happy New Year.

I smile and mouth

Happy New Year

In return, knowing that my voice would be muffled.

I turn back, re-enter the silent home.

The phone rings, muting the noise outside.

I lift the handset, my trembling hand puts it against my ear.

My eyes

water, my lip

quivers, already knowing

she who will be on the other end, greeting

me

Happy New Year.