Will we ever tire of this peripatetic life?

They say travel is for people who do not know how to be happy,

yet, here we are–two loons laughing our asses off

at ourselves, and others,

as we feverishly roam cities, countrysides,

tourist traps, and back alleys.

I remember us watching transfixed, once,

as a German guy relentlessly teased a trapped octopus in

the shallows of the Palawan seas by

poking heartlessly at it with a stick.

We didn’t know it then,

but we were actually one in waiting, with bated breaths,

for the octopod to finally throw itself at the man’s face,

yank his mask off, before dragging him, screaming,

down to the bottom of the sea.

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While drinking tea in this foreign city,

on a bar where raw fish go on a merry ride

down the sushi-go-round,

we agreed–we’re solemates:

each born with restless feet meant to ramble endlessly

Elsewhere.

Our motto being: “We’ll sleep when we’re dead!”

Walking streets, riding trams and ferries, or waiting for train rides,

we always go side-by-side

like twin satellites

(or each other’s shadow).

Nothing else exists except you, me,

this road, this city, this country.

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It always rains in this city.

Back south our dog is molting.

We burrow under the blanket made by your grandmother–

the one with your name and birthday woven in front:

thick, cocoon-like,

made on those backstrap looms

that could sit two Ilocanas.

You wanted it in violet.

Your lola made it in blue

for you were a boy, after all,

and not some sissy.

A few months ago, in April,

we marveled at the fire trees that bloomed too early

(for do they not usually flower in May?)

and we decided to call them: “show offs.”

It is troubling how the days, weeks, and months

seem to disappear into each other.

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