We are accidents waiting, waiting t

for Domini

You say, "Don't eat your words"
and I say "Then don't put words
in my mouth." I look for the letter D
that you found in your alphabet soup.

It will get cold, I will finish
what you can't.

I'm getting restless, so I turn the radio on,
switching from station to station, looking for the right song.
I'm feeling agitated, God knows how long I've waited
for a green light, I'm

waiting for a green light.

Knees shaking while I'm making a beat with fingers tapping on the dashboard,
listen for a rhythm to accompany the traffic flow stop-and-go
I don't know what I'm doing, waiting for a green light,

waiting for a green light.

I'm steady grooving but I'd rather be actually moving,
day in day out, I try to figure out if my situation's improving,
if I'll always be waiting,

waiting for a green light.

In the skeleton
of an unfinished skyscraper
lies a ghost.

There's a spectre
skulking
underneath a broken lamppost.

So we cherish the penthouse view
where there's everything to see
but nothing we can really do.

If we follow the headlight lines
with our cameras and capture luminous designs
we'll be architects.

If we fingerpaint the cityscapes
and trace the horizon that skyscrapers scrape
we'll be architects.

In an alleyway
lives a history
waiting to be untold.

From the heart of
the city's
escaping the promise of gold.

So we dance to the dancefloor beat
where there's everyone to meet
but no one we can really know.

So we follow the headlight lines
with our cameras and capture luminous designs
and we're architects.

So we fingerpaint the cityscapes
and trace the horizon that skyscrapers scrape
and we're architects.

The bluest sky hovers above me,
the smell of rain is in the breeze.
The sun is up but not high enough
to cast my shadow on the streets.

A patch of grass contrasts the concrete,
dewdrops perched on tips of every blade.
And the halflight makes the droplets bright
despite the dawn.

If this is a dream
if anyone can hear me,
if my heart is beating care of a machine,
pull the plug.

Firetrees ablaze on the horizon
are lining up the gutters with their leaves
that glow like coals, soaked and still
vivid, submerged in sludge.

If this is a dream,
if anyone can hear me,
if my heart is beating care of a machine,
pull the plug.

When the day breaks
and the light makes
all the things I've seen pale
in comparison to the city
awake with the bustle of rush hour,
pull the plug.

When the skyline is filled in
with silhouettes buildings,
pull the plug.

for Myka

When I came back to Manila is when
for the first time we spent a day together—
just us, and I made sure
I'd make memories out of everything,
the banderitas swaying above your car
as we turned into a street thinking we were lost,
the afternoon like melting bronze and how thick
it made everything appear,
the mirror (in the coffeeshop) we needed to use
to take the only photo we have
of us, that day, I can only tell you how I feel
by being scenic. Now that I'm back
we notice how far apart we used to be,
how I only know you when I can't
see your face, I can only imagine
you crying, and only because
you're messaging me that you are.