He was a curator
who speaks softly about...

We seem like capital cities apart...
Everyone seems to be moving on...

A thousand
cherry blossom petals...

My heart prickles in pain
remembering how lonely...

This is a lonely hallway,
but I have walked on this...

If I bury my poetry
underneath Manila skies...

4 AM and still awake,
having glances with midnight trains...

I always thought that fire is the only thing that...
and that roses are blessed for their thorns...

This ornate road
I used to pass by...

Don't hate me,
my poetry...

On what day shall I weep?
I broke my collar bone...

Those orange streetlights
that are illuminating the cars that are parked...