As if on cue . . . the rains fell. P said, “I ordered it.” I laughed. It’s been a tender, loving sort of day.

Earlier, in the car, P told me, “Alam mo , malabo na ang mata ko. I can no longer see that far (pointing to two vehicle distances in front of us). You know how they say that when you reach 40, your eyes will suddenly go dim?” 

I smiled, made consoling noises, and rubbed his arm. 

P is turning 37 in August. I’m turning 35 in November.

I met him when I was 16 . . . we were young together.  

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.

So much of life with you is comedy, adventure, fantasy . . . poetry.

I am left–breathless.

I know wherever I am in the world,
when I’m with you–
I feel alive. Happy. Home.

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.

In travel, as in everyday life, you carry everything–
my bric-a-brac: bag, brelly, camera, jacket,
first-aid and sewing kits,
self-defense accoutrements, etcetera,
while I only need to carry your hand.

How nice it is to walk this life with a friend.
A Solemate.
You saved me from the fate of walking in my own shadow–
from wandering alone.

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.
A few months ago it was summer,
now it’s July,
pretty soon it’s Christmas.

But today, time stops.
Everything grinds to a halt
in this room where we live under a blue sheet–
not tired,
not hungry,
not sad,
not worried,
not going anywhere.

Just here.

Now.

And you–Golden, godlike, ever
handsome,
youthful,
smiling.

I shall remember you always in that instant
when the light shone upon your face.
Heartbreakingly.
As if you were a beautiful present
just waiting to be loved.