BAGUIO, THE RETURN
Cold
I whisper to the wind
as I fold myself
like a fan.
I have no one to hold:
No fingers fusing
like candles melting
in the dark.
In Burnham Park
I walk
with nobody to talk to
but myself.
Shadows
of my own making
stalk me in silence,
repeating everything
I do.
Is it your absence
I seek
among the pines?
Or the reek
of your presence
like the needles
pin-pricking my senses
with their scent?
Are you heaven-sent,
an angel invisible
but omnipresent?
Or the devil
come to torture my soul
with the mist,
like dragon's breath
that shrouds
Baguio with myths?
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