Typhoon season came when 

we were alone in an astroturf field. 

Nanay went golfing in Muntinlupa.

So I took her hand and dashed across

the green of palmate leaves

and the yellow of summer fireflies.

Naughty. Seven o’clock was our midnight, 

Nanay said. But I couldn’t turn back. 

Time would drizzle slowly 

and cascade like a waterfall. 

I felt my skin tingle 

as I held her hand 

and danced in the rain.

By eight o’clock, we climbed up

the little tikes tower as 

Barangays turned into swamps.

Past midnight, our bodies were held close.

Her dragonfruit breath fogged my glasses,

but I didn’t care. It was the smell of

a petal-open sampaguita.

The taste of cherry-cola

on a hot summer day. 

I lay limp and languid on

her shoulders. I gaze at the stars,

looming, and I gaze at her.