twt | ig | magmartsa#9837 |

Signal no. 2

How petit-bourgeois of us / to make love as this typhoon comes, // (How postmodern of us / to do it, too, over the phone–) // I, / in Manila; // You, / in Cavite– // Both / under a typhoon's second signal. // We’re two fags / who act like fags, / laughing at the wind / in our bedrooms. // You tell me / you’re sleepy / but you masturbate anyway, / and I watch, / (my eyes / a poet's.) // When u come, / u smile my name / around yr mouth / &the rain / is still soft / as rosaries against our windows. // I wish / I could tell you where the president is. // I don't think anyone knows, / Even when the sky is like this above us. // Tonight, / I’ll be worrying abt my thesis / &whether my phone will last us texting thru the brownouts, and // This is okay, / right? // That neither you / nor I / are praying, / &that I get to say you’re lovely, / even if yr only sleeping on my screen… // You hang up / before the power goes out, // and when I eat dinner with my lola, / I remark on how strange it is– / The storm outside, / the silence within; // How her santol tree bends in the window / yet makes no sound for us to hear inside. // I'm sorry. // How petit-bourgeois is it of me / to speak of silence like this? / To wish I'd do more / than write a poem like this / in the dark.