bat-os

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          it was an island made of beautiful rocks and a veranda of stars. 

Isla Bat-os, Concepcion, Iloilo

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at this very moment, i am alone in an old house. there is a kitchen window that leads to the heads of trees. some bear fruits, some are just green, some have stories of hands which dug the soil - maybe it was a boy or an old man, or a little girl who wanted to hug trees when she’s 21. there are aparadors who have sheltered clothes of her and him and theirs. mirrors that have gazed at beauty, uncertainty, fragile mornings and steamy nights. a wide window shows you the Iloilo boardwalk where people jog, where lovers hold hands and let go of mutual dreams under the sunset, where laughing high school girls walk and tickle each other, where old men run and feel young again. there’s a wooden stair too old that it leads you to a rooftop where the sky becomes pink in the afternoon and the city lights mimic the night bead. and you just stand there feeling something in your heart. that, or nothing. a kind of nothingness that fills a certain gap. a gap that is unnamed but you know it’s just there. or maybe, it has been there.

being in this old house reminds me of the woman who lives here now. her soul is both young and ageless. she has beautiful teeth. she dances while slicing fruits, her eyes dance and beam while listening to stories. she told me once  that not all beautiful things should be easy.

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