Bike ride, 8:18pm
I had sneaked away again. The moon leading me
to where roads sprouted as I pedaled
away. Each road, another question of why I was moving
forward. Should I have known better? Should my eyes
not lock with yours while you watched me teach
in class? You had taken down notes,
brushed your hair from your face when it hid
from my gaze, revealing a gold pin
on your collar. Your school’s logo. A name plate
on your chest: pre-service teacher.
That night, you frowned when I told you it was raining
when I had ridden a bike. My hair plastered
on my face clumsily. My drenched gray jacket dark
like pavement. It was the first time we saw each other
without our uniforms. Our blouses, both bulletproof vests
for each other. Don’t shoot. Don’t touch. Don’t call me
by anything other than “Ma’am.” But we were stubborn,
you and I. We called each other love.
In the faculty room, I had always wondered how your hand
felt like whenever it was close to mine. A week after
we had called each other love, you told me
you didn’t let anyone touch your hand.
And now here we were in a greasy fast food chain,
a paper cup of coffee between us
before you reached out your hand for me to hold.
Your hands were soft like rain drops
gently pattering my skin. We struggled to call each other
by our names the whole night. Before you left,
I kissed your cheek. You said I broke two rules of yours
that night: no one holds your hand and no one
kisses your cheek. I thought of how we would wear
our uniforms tomorrow, along with a smile
only the two of us would share. Love,
we’ve always been good at breaking rules.
The First Trip
Unpacking was the worst part.
After I returned home alone, I let my travel bag
lay bare on my bed—a treasure chest
with a mouth that refused to close,
as if frozen in mid-sentence,
because of a broken zipper.
From the bag I retrieved
a pack of Salonpas, with two packs missing.
I had used them for my back which hurt
from sleeping by the wall, spine
against cement, cold latching on to bone
like water seeping into pavement. I slept
that way since she took up all the space
in the bed. She was tired and the night,
with its cold murmurs, told us to lay down.
We never got to see the city at night.
A brochure from the resort we stayed in, the words
“Eden Nature Park”, half-creased. The picture
of the Bird Sanctuary had scratches
from our untrimmed nails.
We followed every cemented path that led
to other paths guarded by railings
as if they were afraid to be lost within themselves.
We were poor with directions too.
What remained in my bag was an empty purse,
navy blue cloth like a city at dusk,
a canvas turned murky brown over the years. Her first gift
when she became my girlfriend a year ago.
What’s left in the purse was a receipt. The cost
of our cottage, the buffet breakfast, the bird sanctuary
we never found, the view we never shared together,
and all the things we spent our money on.
All the things we tried our best to keep.
Why I Write
Poetry
had not been kind to anyone.
All the lovers who became poems
remained as poems.
And it scared me how
you were turning
into one. Yet
here you were yearning
to be spoiled by metaphors.
You speak
in line breaks. Your lips,
I compared to the fluttering
of butterflies. I knew
and I admit that your presence
was more tangible on paper
than beside me. You thought
I never wrote about you
so you told me about a guy
who you imagined having children with.
I’m just imagining, it isn’t real.
You also told me I never gave you anything
real. And you were right
because all I had were metaphors
that would never be used to describe us
anymore. And now this poem
that isn’t about you
ends.
Ria Valdez is a graduate of Bachelor of Arts (AB) in English, major in Creative Writing, from the University of the Philippines - Mindanao, she currently teaches senior high school Creative Writing and Creative Nonfiction subjects at Davao City National High School. Her poems and creative nonfiction are published in Dagmay Literary Journal, Payag Habagatan: New Writings from the South, and “Press: 100 Love Letters” (University of the Philippines Press, 2017), among others.