February-filled Footsteps

As happiness begins to vanish
under your Orchid firmament,
I am hoping to meet you again
in the amaranth shadows of that Narra tree.

Your footsteps begin to echo
the song I heard last February.
I remember,
You walked barefooted
in a road your guitar has penned
against those Pine trees.
Three days later,
you've made an abstract painting.

I am a Honeysuckle--
barefooted like you,
confused,
and still finding a way
to describe your colors.

Over those Daffodils,
would you dance with me?

I am only a Honeysuckle
that writes about
the speed of a
falling Cherry Blossom petal.
And you are an abstract painting
interpreting Manila and its history.

On the 17th day of February,
my poetry died.
I wrote about your footsteps--
how they seemed to harbor promises
the other night.

You've forgotten the language of flowers
while your sky was still Orchid.

Honeysuckle is the color of your fate.
Under that Narra tree,
you painted your destiny--
a rustic beauty,
a devoted love.

In this host of Daffodils,
I will wait for you.