By Lysander Tiu
I wake at the dreary dead of night, drenched in sweat,
under the weary Ceres light, ears plugged and head-set.
leftover calls from Dumaguete and _______
caught between leaving home to go back home
leaning against the dusted window inside,
I recalled the arid August that arrived
came along with it the Hibalag I longed to find.
eleven storied days left shorter than they seem,
of plates uneaten and photos unseen.
smiles stretched thin I ought to outlive the night
moments that slipped loose I wish stayed within sight.
I can now only reminisce of what I seemed to miss,
the endings I never knew would ache like this.
as August slowly became September,
the terminal held what was left for me to remember.
