how to reason there is no reason not to love despite of

The intrusive nature of words,
How they could force us to heed them.

The vernacular we seldom speak,
The click of letters now foreign in our mouths.

The clink of coins in the pockets of tailored suits,
How the cries of currency do not differ in tin cans.

The silence we cover next to our excuses
Like a patch of paisley on white-silver silk.

The lies that stand as truths for our convenience,
Their heft more than what we could ask to bear.

The pyrotechnics we could hear but never see,
That we are either too far or too close we shield our eyes.

The messages withheld but are composed in our heads,
Our only ploy is that we are ahead of our time.

The calls of siloys on crosshatching limbs of the talisay,
Whether these are songs of love or the absence of it.

The instances when everything is our love song,
From the blare of horns to the crush of paper crumpled.

The questions, “How are you?”, “What is wrong?”,
“When would that be?”, “Who are we to refuse?” and “Why?”

The asphalt vapor that rises from the streets at midday,
Smelling like dogs and petrol between our distances.

The perfume that blankets a department store,
One of the few places where bliss are sold in martian bottles.

The whiff of pandan that drifts out of the widow’s house;
Her plate of rice paler and softer than her fingers.

The widower and the musk of freshly tilled soil,
That nothing could be more earth-bound than this.

The orphan in search for a trace of lavender in his pillow,
In search for the meaning of belongingness.

The winds that sculpt a once shapeless cloud,
That it could be an omen, telling and to be feared.

The stains we leave on the wooden table with our drinks,
Their sweat an imprint of neglect.

The cats that stare straight at our eyes at night,
Their calm resolve we constantly envy.

The affliction of recalling faces but not the names,
Our only hope introductions will be forever and requisite.

The possibilities of not knowing where the train goes,
Whether this south is our south or theirs and vice versa.

The means we warrant the joys of a storm that has passed,
Divining the skies for the first, minute hint of sunlight.

The elaborate anatomy that defines our features,
Slipping away after seeing too many cycles of the moon.

The stillness that throbs and dawns in most afternoons,
The shadows around us longer, wider, deeper.

The red bicycle with the flat front tire in the garage,
Rust claiming its territory on the chain and brakes.

The simple instructions we always fail to read,
As if there is not enough room for our inadequacies.

The time when our lips once meet as we lay on the grass;
A discovery of how brief an abundance of green tastes like.

The tang of history on our tongues,
One that nothing could ever wash away.

The spices nothing could seemingly wash away,
That our tongues deserve the torture of never forgetting.

The secret, bitter prayers we know too well,
Our guilt becoming mantras, as human as skin.

The scheming, sweet consolations we know too well,
Our mantras becoming human, as guilty as skin.

The insouciance we have for kamingaw,
That there are other maladies to attend to.

The way water seems to resist our touch,
As if there is no other way to forgive than to keep trying.

The little souvenirs we have bought for our beloved,
Those that would rest at the end of a drawer someday.

The things we shelf at the back of our heads,
Only to tip over with the slightest trigger of remembrances.

The edges of torn paper and blades of grass,
That they are among the few honest faces of mistake.

The few honest faces of mistake,
How they appear right and true in the beginning.

The prophetic wisdom of a mango to a virgin,
That not everything that smells sweet is ripe and true.

The dust between floorboards and other disregarded spaces,
Remainders of our former selves, quiet and growing.

The disparate objects we claim to have meanings,
As if this coffee is brewing a conspiracy of sadness.

The days when we comb our fingers through our hair
And wonder, why now? When will this ever end?

Yes, there are things that resist to be understood.
Such as love and other excesses, such as hate,

Such as shapes that resemble nothing we have seen before:
Straight, curving on one side, bulging, and at times completely

Crooked. There may not be enough kindness in this world
To keep our faith rooted in the crevices of our palms,

But by all means let them be, perplexing
And impenetrable. For it goes without saying

We do not reason when we love.
There is no reason not to love.