[randomness] ...
Last day of the week. <3
This is a dream.
We are talking between kisses, your hand on my hip as I lie on my back, my limbs all tired from a day at the mountain springs. Whatever apprehension I had about you touching me just like this is now left at the door, with my sandals and your shoes. When you press brief kisses against my collarbone, I smile against your cheek and use my teeth to tug on your ear.
You warn me then, that there are consequences should I do it again, and I just smile up at you, feeling as mischievous as I can only remember being the year I turned sixteen. Every girl should feel this way, regardless of her age. Thrilled as if this not-so-clandestine meeting were just that, always with that heady feeling that someone might walk in and catch you doing something you shouldn't.
"Consequences?" I enunciate the syllables as if to stress my amusement and I note the way you shift over me so that we fit in that way that they say lovers are supposed to fit.
"Yes," you kiss me again, open-mouthed so that your tongue teases my lips open. I receive you willingly, unable to help myself because I don't want to in the first place. "Consequences."
Um. Don't ask.
[Edit: 11.21am]
Pam and Lenlen. I hate you both.
We are at that place in Intramuros - a hole in the wall bar that opens at dusk and closes at dawn. I remember this place from my last year of high school and am genuinely surprised that they're still open, so many years after.
They still serve drinks, stay up all night, talk about one of the things that I love: poetry. I remember, when I first came here, the sun was orange in the late afternoon, and we, a group of students in our uniforms, tired from a whole day in school, were filled with anticipation for the brief two hours to come.
This little establishment, it's odd ceiling the interior curve of the underside of a bridge, was where I first sang for my peers, and I remember how I wondered afterwards if I was wrong to do so. Halfway through the second verse I had realized that my song had sounded younger and more naive than I had wanted it to feel. It felt less sincere than other songs, as my verses were riddled with hasty rhymes and age-old cliches. They applauded of course, because you always do, even if you didn't necessarily enjoy the performance.
I will not sing tonight. I am not ready to share even if I have shared my songs with others, in other spaces. Tonight I will sit with you and her and him and her - my best friend and your two friends. We will sit comfortably on an assortment of pillows on the linoleum floor and I will be witty with quick comebacks and generous praise, because the people who go up to the front to read theirs poetry out loud are people I admire for their courage.
The college student - yes, he looks that young - who stands now apologizes softly, and tells us that he will read one of Lorca's poems. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Kam's smile. I mirror it and know that even if it is not something from the Gypsy Ballads, she will love it. That I will too.
He reads out "The Moon Rising" and his nervousness seeps away as soon as he starts, the tone of his voice dipping low to say: "When the moon rises, / the bells hang silent, / and impenetrable footpaths / appear."
Already I can see it, this place that Lorca speaks of - or maybe it's a place of my own fabrication: It is dark and I can smell that moistness that seems to belong solely to the evenings; clean almost, cold. I can see the sea, it's waves the color of hematite under the moon, smoothing over the shore.
But you distract me from the image just as he enters the third verse, your voice close to my ear, breath warm as your chin rests lightly on my shoulder. Your voice covers his as you whisper the poem in its original. How you know it, I can only wonder, but my heart is thudding too loud, its beat the reverberation from a large drum, its booming voice there in my chest.
This is a dream.
We are talking between kisses, your hand on my hip as I lie on my back, my limbs all tired from a day at the mountain springs. Whatever apprehension I had about you touching me just like this is now left at the door, with my sandals and your shoes. When you press brief kisses against my collarbone, I smile against your cheek and use my teeth to tug on your ear.
You warn me then, that there are consequences should I do it again, and I just smile up at you, feeling as mischievous as I can only remember being the year I turned sixteen. Every girl should feel this way, regardless of her age. Thrilled as if this not-so-clandestine meeting were just that, always with that heady feeling that someone might walk in and catch you doing something you shouldn't.
"Consequences?" I enunciate the syllables as if to stress my amusement and I note the way you shift over me so that we fit in that way that they say lovers are supposed to fit.
"Yes," you kiss me again, open-mouthed so that your tongue teases my lips open. I receive you willingly, unable to help myself because I don't want to in the first place. "Consequences."
Um. Don't ask.
[Edit: 11.21am]
Pam and Lenlen. I hate you both.
We are at that place in Intramuros - a hole in the wall bar that opens at dusk and closes at dawn. I remember this place from my last year of high school and am genuinely surprised that they're still open, so many years after.
They still serve drinks, stay up all night, talk about one of the things that I love: poetry. I remember, when I first came here, the sun was orange in the late afternoon, and we, a group of students in our uniforms, tired from a whole day in school, were filled with anticipation for the brief two hours to come.
This little establishment, it's odd ceiling the interior curve of the underside of a bridge, was where I first sang for my peers, and I remember how I wondered afterwards if I was wrong to do so. Halfway through the second verse I had realized that my song had sounded younger and more naive than I had wanted it to feel. It felt less sincere than other songs, as my verses were riddled with hasty rhymes and age-old cliches. They applauded of course, because you always do, even if you didn't necessarily enjoy the performance.
I will not sing tonight. I am not ready to share even if I have shared my songs with others, in other spaces. Tonight I will sit with you and her and him and her - my best friend and your two friends. We will sit comfortably on an assortment of pillows on the linoleum floor and I will be witty with quick comebacks and generous praise, because the people who go up to the front to read theirs poetry out loud are people I admire for their courage.
The college student - yes, he looks that young - who stands now apologizes softly, and tells us that he will read one of Lorca's poems. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Kam's smile. I mirror it and know that even if it is not something from the Gypsy Ballads, she will love it. That I will too.
He reads out "The Moon Rising" and his nervousness seeps away as soon as he starts, the tone of his voice dipping low to say: "When the moon rises, / the bells hang silent, / and impenetrable footpaths / appear."
Already I can see it, this place that Lorca speaks of - or maybe it's a place of my own fabrication: It is dark and I can smell that moistness that seems to belong solely to the evenings; clean almost, cold. I can see the sea, it's waves the color of hematite under the moon, smoothing over the shore.
But you distract me from the image just as he enters the third verse, your voice close to my ear, breath warm as your chin rests lightly on my shoulder. Your voice covers his as you whisper the poem in its original. How you know it, I can only wonder, but my heart is thudding too loud, its beat the reverberation from a large drum, its booming voice there in my chest.