The Reason I Write

A brown paper
encourages me to write.

Yesterday,
we walked that slope barefooted...
In this city of Pines,
we can get lost
to the way those citylights
and the dewdrops on the window
embrace your distant smiles.

With the way your breath
fogs up the window glass,
you know you're not in Manila.
But Manila is kept in your heart
and I will always write about
how you try to chase
that whimsical grin
alongside the streets of Manila.

We still can gaze at the same sunset
and watch the moon harbour your secrets.
And the lofty environment
that once held the memories
found in the strands of your hair
rests in this palm of mine.

Enveloped feelings
are inside this brown paper --
the happiness of watching you
go up that stairs with 102 steps,
the longing that is felt
when we are not on the same bus,
and the feeling of elation
with the way you call my name.

Your laughter will always be mellifluous.
And you are always meant to live
in a January that is papery.

February is the death of my poetry.
But you revive it
everytime I look at you;
and your smile always reminds me
you are the reason I write.