HEY I HEARD YOU ARE A SLY ONE.

Late: Ties

To say that it struck like lightning would be folly, a vain attempt to sunder from all liabilities. There were signs:   going incommunicado for hours, for days; disappearing acts that conclude at the blasphemous hour of three in the morning; money lost under the guise of being pickpocketed, of being held up for the first time ever(and he was a giant of a man, at that); rare material wants denied(and yet he just bought two, three phones, among other things); women in provocative poses infesting wallpapers like an epidemic, like a teen driven by hormones(and he was 56, with a wife, and three kids); wallet and phones nowhere hid, even for his spouse(as was said, he just bought new ones for himself); red lace in his suitcase that nobody owned, id pictures of a wench in his suitcase unnamed(and my mother kept this secret for half a year and two, kept her grief to herself). These were pustules in the pretty picture we had in our heads. We did not pry: it was too late when the tumor revealed itself.

To say that we were pre-occupied, that we did not care could be an excuse, a ruse: an easy way out. He never spoke during the confrontation, even when the mistress(and there were three, sisters, in fact) admitted,  then subsequently denied all allegations. The tangled loops and frayed ends of her stories, her lies, her myths sprung from her mouth like sentient, resilient weeds, even as the noose tightened about her neck, even as we doused the kindling, the logs, as we lit our torches. He stood silent. The tears ran freely from mama's eyes and her wails warbled, dissonant, profound: her dreams she kept in a box all these years for the man who swore to be her strength, they broke free from their velvet prison wilted and dried and black; the dignity she's held on to all these years, she let go: she was a husk, a woman scorned, a wife scorned, a mother scorned whose anger and anguish wove from sobs to screams to sobs to screams. I held on to her, and my cousin, too, consoling the inconsolable, asking her not to give in: that she had children. Even as we gave her water to calm her down, he stood silent.

To say that we were unaware is a lie. We had an inkling, and it whispered to us in our sleep, yet we denied it. To assume that everything could go back to the way it was is foolish: how do you make whole the slivers of maligned crystal? Who knows? Maybe it is all too late.

Miranda Lambert

The House That Built Me

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4: Late

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These Days

Dreams dwindle the afternoons: the city softly blurring into the periphery of vision; the stereo churning out songs punctuated by (our) laughter, rhythmic reminders of lyrics lost in the mirth; the shades shielding against the glare. We slow to a crawl, making memories, freezing moments, listening to shutters whir away.

We ripple away from lazy power lines, from bright commercial facades, from looming billboards(THIS AD SPACE IS AVAILABLE). Road signs tell us we move closer to our destination(  Mandaue City ↓  ,) wherever that is. Our conversations turn to photographs:  life metamorphoses to the surreal when viewed through a lens, when boxed in a photograph; our conversations turn to art: we create for the joy of creation; our conversations turn to poetry: abandon all hope, ye who enters. We go in circles, their circumferences degenerating, our conversations spiraling to love: you don't know it yet, but you're renting a one-bedroom flat in my mind.

One drifts off to sleep, briefly worn, the diffused light resting on the planes of his face, delving the recesses of laugh lines, peeping from the shade of his jawline, from behind his cheekbones; the other's hand ensconcing his, welcoming the soul beneath the callouses.

The sky, ablaze with shades of red beyond count, and the horizon, caked with diamond dust, greet waking eyes, their edges crinkled, roused from slumber by an insistent breath towards his ears, stray locks quivering in delight. We sit on the hood, living memories: listening to the waves hiss in surrender(or was it bliss we heard?) as their brief lives end, beyond all control, upon rocks, only to be raised again; capturing moments: the spray and the foam always frozen in flight.

We go on, lost in anecdotes: this one time, at ...; lost in food: raw garlic, pasta, onions, black angus steaks, cheese, wine; lost in our thoughts: each idly caressing the other's hand, animatedly whining about school(our teachers and all the cliques) *click*, offhandedly cracking one-liners *whir*, cracking smiles *click*, curling smirks *whir*, rolling eyes *click*.

The night is afire with stars, the Milky Way filling us with child-like wonder(what if The Supreme Being's farted us to existence? That we are precipitates of some trans existential noxious gas?), imposing the enormity of the Universe, shoving our infinitesimal lives down our throats, brandishing it at our faces as we lie upon our mat beneath the limitless expanse of the cosmos, the sea-breeze ruffling our hair, its rich tang filling us both, taking our senses to new heights. You curl aside to face me, to take my hand, our skins silver in the moonlight: living a memory, freezing a moment, listening to words unsaid.

Asleep

Emily Browning

Disney Princesses: At Seventeen

The applause that rose as the curtains fell was thunderous, but it wasn't for them. One by one, the Princesses curtsied as was their wont and left the stage, all regal and smiling.

Her face forlorn, she asked Esmeralda, "But aren't we Princesses, too?"

Wistful, Esmeralda replied, "Well, what can we do? They're racists? I guess we are, Pocahontas," she bit her lip and continued, "but maybe they don't remember..."

And those of us with ravaged faces 

Lacking in the social graces 

Desperately remained at home

At Seventeen

Janis Ian

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3: Disney Princesses

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