This evening I looked closely at
the girl who was not me
and found the same handwriting on her love-note
and the same metaphor you used on my birthday.
This evening I sat in my room with a pen in my hand again,
and pretended everything is as good as it was when I was younger,
and my heart was a glass always half-full
love and ambition and hope mixed in somewhere
in all the muscle and tissue.
But not everything is wiser in retrospect,
and I am older now, but my fingers still burn with all this,
and on nights like these I am still a paper-doll girl
with too many metaphors.
I am older now,
but some things refuse to change.
Like how I am always searching for metaphors
in the sky, willing this town to become beautiful.
I still write poetry like my life depends on it,
like every word is a gasp for breath. It is
the only way I do not end up writing about you.
Originally published on alike.com.ph