Where No Firefly Has Gone Before

Last September,
I watched
my Grandmother
brew tea beside
my Grandfather's grave.
That was
the day
I believed
I am
a firefly-
luminous, dainty
and abstract
like the musings
my Grandfather
once had.

The past
few months,
rain hid remorse
behind every drop.
A flowering Rosemary
made me think
of the crybaby
I used to be.

I just wanted
to protect
the things
that are
important to me.

A butterfly
inverted by reveries
told me
that my glow
is as false
as the promises
I always
tried keeping.

Suddenly,
memories became
too tired
of slumbering
in a space
that resembles Manila
and its
celadon serendipity.
And I was
left with
the want
to keep running
down this
endless road.

Butterflies are
inverted by reveries...

reveries that
my Grandfather constructs...

reveries that
make my
glow of
being a firefly.

All this time,
I believe that
those butterflies
hated those trances
because everytime
I thought of
my Grandfather's tears
and melancholies,
this woebegone street
proclaimed that
I couldn't hide
butterflies inside
my pocket anymore.

(My glow
was stuck
in the promises
of September)

Now, I think
I know
why my Grandfather
couldn't stop
creating daydreams...

he knew
when he's dead,
those will become
the architecture
for my art
of being a firefly.

(But I guess,
I am wrong)

After drinking
the tea
my Grandmother brewed,
I tasted
the reality
that I do
not glow
because I
am not really
a firefly...

but I do glitter
because my Grandfather
loved me
more than
anyone else
in this world.

(I forgot
that it was
not only reveries
he made
but also
a love
that is
more than love)