On rain and scars and pizza.
There is torrential poetry in rain and stinging wisdom in scars. But in the grand scheme of things, all these are futile without the warmth and healing grace of pizza.
I’m here for the pizza.
On rain and scars and pizza.
There is torrential poetry in rain and stinging wisdom in scars. But in the grand scheme of things, all these are futile without the warmth and healing grace of pizza.
I’m here for the pizza.
Acid rain.
You fall down on me like acid rain, my soul a stone slowly weathering.
“Baby, you are gonna miss that plane.”
And he said,
“There is nothing that could top
The rumbling sound of an airplane
As it leaves the tarmac
And head to wherever
Somewhere far away from you
And knowing that I am not on it.”
Burn.
It smells like summer but it hurts like June.
The things that burn
Are never gone too soon.
A summer thing.
And it dawned on me on a sticky, summer Saturday: This is going to be a long, lonely life.
Of wine and soulmates.
Over a glass of red wine, she told me, the sweetest poem ever written. She said, “My biggest fear is that, one day, my kids will ask me, ‘How does it feel like to marry your soulmate?’ And I’m gonna have to say, ‘I have no idea.’”
Yup, red wine never tasted the same since.
Binondo, Manila
Strawberry Fields, Central Park.
Manila in the claws of neon.
Please go away.
