Alunsina's Return

There came a time when his grief,
so long held at bay, finally
shattered into storms of sorrow so vast
that it poured in seemingly endless torrents
down the lands and oceans which teemed
with the life he had created,
that Tungkung Langit himself, lord
of earth and sky, could only just fold
unto himself. He became the blanket
of darkness that covered the sun, so that night and day
turned into one seamless lapse,
and all that was known of time fell
away into one confused heap of endlessness.

His regret rained down in sheets,
his cries thundered into the endless night,
his fury, the lightning that shafted across the horizon, cutting the sky
into momentary twilights. And soon, everywhere
was heard the sound of sorrow, for all things
wept as the god did the. The tallest mountains stood
wearily against the beating wind, flowers
and trees cowered in fear
at the deluge of anger, of despair,
and the sounds of woe echoed across creation-
for Alunsina, the lost one, who had disappeared
the day Tungkung Langit fell at her with his wrath,
so that no more songs were heard,
and only empty sighs lingered across
the stars, which were her jewels,
echoes that hung upon the lonely moon,
which was her comb, upon which was suspended
a cloak of seemingly eternal darkness.

But at last, across the lapping waves of the ocean, a soft whistle
was heard, so that the tide mellowed
at the moon's bequest for quiet,
the better to hear the enchanting sound.
It was that of a flute, lovely and sweet,
balm to anger and all things destructive,
music that soothed the storm into submission,
as only Alunsina's hand could tame water
and it was she, now, who came walking
with the dawn, for at last time had again
let itself in with the first rays of the sun.
At the sound of her footsteps, the sky
rumbled into silence, as sudden
as Tungkung Langit's first cry had come, for now
he had stopped his sobbing, and with breath held,
he listened to the glide of softness
stealing in with the morning.

Afraid to look (for what if it were not
she?), he did not see how the horizon
had once more put sea and sky back in place,
yet he heard the wind now quiet down
at a bird's soft cooing, heard how the things he had created
now bowed in gentle reverence and gratefulness
and he knew, at last, that Alunsina's was the hand
that touched his wearied shoulders,
the hand that drew him back into daylight,

Marginalia

Never ignore the footnotes is a line

I love well. He always read them

last, I did as the author told, 

my heart fluttering at the sight

of the tiny numerics linked by almost

visible threads to the definitives at the bottom. 
The almost, I often went beyond:

presumptive and co-author, 

admiring critic, worshipping student--I wrote

on the margins as if 

I had the right to those spaces. 

I underlined, put checkmarks and crosses,

insisting while he shook

his head at my dog ears, clicking

his mute, disdaining tongue 

at my clumsy scribbles:

This is foreshadowed by the preceding stanzas;

still, it is jolting enough.

I tore the page and hid

it in a box.

This footnote says:

Adjective. amoureux (feminine singular amoureuse, masculine plural amoureux, feminine plural amoureuses). 

we are subject and reader

I show you the words and you nod

at the childhood I have let you into,

the years I had written after the brackets

dividing time into epochs, an epic of a life:

a tiny ballerina twirling under friendly lights;

the singing child, singing her way to adulthood;

a girl with eyes that stared, wistful, at the moon;

the disillusioned grown-up, gathering her losses;

the woman who lived, the woman

who lives. 

You read the page--footnote, 

marginalia, pointing at the brackets--

you can write more here,

and I jot down:

You are  my

stream of consciousness.

Colors, III

What color is distance--

what color the distance between then

and now? Aqua, you say, like the water

beneath this less than riotous sky.

Cerulean, the calm in the hearts, beating, crimson,

inside us. You and I, staunch as indigo. 

How far, my love, how deeply 

we have fathomed those sapphire depths,

the gold of the sun coating the spruce

underneath

with light, a shimmering, honeyed subterfuge 

for the darkness we have drawn away, 

the undertows we braved, sable, onyx, obsidian,

the slate-gray whirlpools we drowned in and rose from

with only the unbreakable faith 

in what cannot be seen. 

Courage is ebony, rival to evening's shadows. 

But tonight, we paint the sky coral--

crepe and peach, flamingo and rosewood.

Sea and sky intertwined, your hand and mine.

This promise, stubborn and resplendent

as that tuscan-tinged sunset, fawn

and tangerine fire, golden

and irrevocable--

its pewter cloak, moonlight.

December 30, 2017

Subic Bay 

Variation on a Theme: Mariang Makiling

When the moon was a certain shape,
when its light was a pale shade of gold
when its beams fell in gentle wisps
along the outlines of the mountain,
when the brooks slivered silver across the verdure brightening
the soil, patches
of life in sundry stages of growth,
when the moon showed no signs
of the waning that was to come--
the townsfolk would preen through windows,
would turn the knobs of doors
and step out, but gingerly
lest the budding blooms woke, for flowers
were sacred, as all beautiful things were,
and so they had been taught. Treading softly,
they would look up the mountain,
their eyes wistful and misting with the memory of old loves, of lost loves, their
minds wandering the pathways of erstwhile forgotten sadnesses, scattering around
as the browning petals that slip away
from the grips of calyxes, relieved from the burden
of dead desires, the pull away from prison
doors that chained and choked hearts to their deaths.
Love knew what it was not, the same way it knew
what it was. And they sighed
at this knowledge, grateful
in knowing.

Silence hung, wafting with a vagrant breeze
and they waited.
For a trail of skirt, a white foot, white hands,
that beautiful face that haunted
their sleep, more haunting now
because elusive, as a hurt heart hides
within itself, making a coccoon
of its pain. An owl hooted, the crickets
grew silent. The night
wore on and the folk grew restless--
were they ever to see her again,
the goddess of the mountain, giver
of gifts that sustained their bodies,
bearer of smiles and wordless wisdom
that kept their souls aflame
with life, keeper of the secrets
that raised those who loved beyond
the grasping hands of those bound
by earth. Maria, the vanished--
they grew sadder as the darkness deepened.

Many moons ago, they began missing
the rustle of her long, white skirt, the scent
of the dama de noche that grew gentler
as she walked by, the overpowering
sense of peace and light when she would scatter
the mist of enchantment
across the mountain and the plains
around it. Ah, Maria. They blamed the stranger
who had boldly trekked the uncleared shadows,
who had pushed away the big rocks
so he could go higher up the mountain
where the air grew sharper with each turn.
I am on a search, he had said, the man
whose eyes were a little brighter,
whose stature a little straighter
than any they had seen, tall and sure
and arrogant. They had turned their backs,
shaking their heads. But he had plodded on. And when he returned, days later,
his hands bleeding, his face scratched
and his shoes torn, all he said was,
I will come back, and the town did not
dare ask if he had found
what he was looking for.

And he did come back, each time
clearing the path a little farther, his hands bleeding
just a little more, his face growing harder
when they told him to give up.
Their wise old woman said he was Leander,
crossing the sea each night to see Hero.
Who were they? She was asked.
He was someone who loved, and she was
someone who loved back.
This man, she said, was searching for the diwata. But he will fail, she said.
And the town agreed.

One night, he was seen for the last time.
He did not descend, though the folk
waited and waited to catch a glimpse
of his dark shape. The old woman bowed her head.
He has found her, she said. He is mortal,
they protested. Ah, but his bleeding hands
have turned him into a god.
A love like that, they frowned.
Does it still exist? And the wind
blew gentler, as if in reply.

Tonight, they could feel their hearts about to burst
with longing. Oh, but to see the beautiful one
once more. Their jealousy, once cruel,
had mellowed into questions and wistfulness.
Very soon, from the far heights of the looming mountain
echoed a woman's laugh, tinkling
with the happiness they all looked for.
And they lay their heads on their pillows,
dreaming of hands that touched
and that did not let go.


September 23, 2017
Mt. Makiling

For Kian--who is every woman's son

This is not the time
for restraint. This is not the time
for speaking in whispers, murmurs,
for silence. Sound
the gong of outrage,
magnify the echoes of woe,
shatter indifference
with the lamentation in dying voices,
let ears split from the cries
of mourning--mother to her son,
oh, bring out the Pieta--
mother, son,
why my son?
Let eyes burn with tears
unshed, let all eyes shed tears--
play a montage
of all that this boy could have been,
paint the sky
with the blood of this child,
this blood splattering the asphalt,
let it not stay confined
to that particular square of street,
consigned to oblivion,
muted by shadow.
Let this child's blood loom
the sight of every man,
let the scarlet spark dead angers.
Let the dead speak.
Let this dead child speak.

Colors, II

Amethyst, I saw first--
rich as to be almost opaque
except for tiny rivulets of Turkish Rose
running through velveteen
violet, shreds of moon
hinting at forgotten lights,
remembered textures: the slate gray softness of sorrow,
the russet rough of bliss, tender billows,
stones merging beneath a teal waterfall.
You, the staunch magnificence in Blue.

I line up Alabaster, Amaranth, Amber, Ambivalence:
lavender and lilac at war, crawling
without stealth, shamelessly creeping
over a helpless bower, your laughter,
golden, echoing across the loveliness
above you, and I, lost
in the suddenness of this discovery--
it is possible to melt and remain whole.

I gather this garden into a bud of colors,
calyx of memory holding up
sheen, shimmer, soul,
the sharpness of remembering,
hovering as the roll of your name
against my tongue:
startling staccatos of starlight
wrap an evening painted sapphire,
and I say: Carmine, Carnelian, Copper, Coral, Crimson
I and my (here, I insert
Obsidian)obession with words
that hardly ever achieves clarity except
in the onyx of your eyes--

Your eyes, my inexhaustible well of color,
story upon story of magic,
submerging my alertness into aquamarine waters.
Here, I swim to the surface,
in my hands:

Verdigris, Vermilion, Viridian.

Variation on a Theme: Psyche and Eros

The lamp is lit--
A glowing paleness, incandescent fire
tamed to obedience by the hand
of its bearer. Love,
I gasp in the swirl of my own
swooning, swale
to steeple, spire,
sky to sky--

you stir.
Breath held, I behold
your sleeping figure, angles and edges
sculpted into soft lines, marking the ends
that flow into more: hard lines, slanting, certain.
Hence limned, you glow brighter
than this lamp.

Your eyes slowly open
and I wait for your wings to flap and bear you away
once more. Instead, you pull me in
and we turn into the lock that we had always been,
that no despair or distance can break,
the unified field
where soul and heart meet.

A Spell of Names

She ran into the wood, laughing. The sound echoed small, tinkling bells, golden with life. Enchanted, he followed, pushing away branches and boughs that never seemed to touch the woman. They made way for her; she floated through them, the hem of her soft yellow dress trailing her back like the foam of a matte gold waterfall.

"Let us disappear and just be our names," she said, looking back at him, her eyes bright with sunlight.

There was a soundless clap--she turned into a butterfly. The man was overcome with lightness and joy. He had, at last, become his name.

13 June 2017
UP Diliman
The Trees at twilight

Variation on a Theme: Erato

A brief lustre in the distance, a gentle
splash made the man look
up from the sand
where he had lain
the objects in his pocket, to which
he had added a pebble.

The sky was spread out into the evening,
watching, as the man mouthed
the words: car key, pen, cigarettes,
pebble over and over
until the names lost their sense,
as repetition does what it does:
strip things of meaning.

The man had forgotten his name.
He did not know who he was. A voice
in a long-ago, forgotten figment
had called out to him--from a window,
from seafoam; it was loneliness
that made him come.

The slice of light caught his eyes,
igniting a memory--
the sea, a blowing wind, a woman
shrouded in moonlight, a strange song--
that could just as well have been a dream,
for the man did not believe
in things unseen;

still, he stood up and walked closer
to the water. The moon had risen
and so had his sadness,
sharper now that he was surrounded
by so much softness: wave,
breeze, starlight, song, a distant glimmer
which now grew nearer,
and he, caught in shadow,
lost certainty of movement:

Did he move closer, or
did the light?

He held back his tears, kept
the loveliness at bay, for men
from his world never cried.
But the shimmer soon shone
into long, spun locks,
streaming down a paleness--
shoulders, a face, eyes looking into
his, piercing his soul:
I see you, a voice spoke, though there
was no sound. You
summoned, and I came.

Transfixed, the man felt soft fingers
trailing his cheek and the tears fell,
bidden by touch, dear warmth
traversing his cold pathways,
awakening his slumbering soul.

Leaning close, she whispered his name
into his mouth. Stop searching
for me, for I am
always with you.

Variation on a Theme: The Transformation of Psyche

It was pain that lifted her off the ground.
With each that she suffered, she found
she was shedding off just a little more
skin, flesh, bone,
and all the weight they came with;

mind and more mind, she shut out,
and less and less they became
until her body mirrored glass--
clear and solid, ready
for reflection, to break
into pieces, into fragments
of likenesses, shrapnels of soul,
to shatter into

possibility.

Yet in resembling glass--
and parallels are limitless--
she only resembled glass;
for it is true what the gods say: nothing
is as it is. Fragile, she was strong;
and she was strong only as far
as she allowed herself to break.

This, Psyche understood, to the heart
alone does the soul succumb;
and in understanding, she shattered,
shattering into all that she could become--
hard surface and quiet stream,
air, dream, a pair of butterfly wings.

She brushed past distances,
erasing them; she flowed into healing tears,
became sky, abyss, vastness;
she refracted light and shadow,
catching glimpses of the self coccooned
in self;

she began to comprehend
disappearance; she discovered
weightlessness. Lightness

and light started tapping
at her edges, her edges giving
way and giving way to let
the light in, gentle ripples, sliver, golden;
mysteries, translucent, small
until felt;
wisp-like miracles, silent
until known.

Later, standing near the water
in trance, trembling, transformed,
she grew porous with brilliance
and became the word
Luminous.

Variation on a Theme: Psyche

Three tasks, she had fulfilled,
and with the last triumph she felt weakest,
because mortal, slight and barefoot;
yet about to earn what the books
henceforth called her--the Goddess
of the Soul.

The first of her burdens:
after loss, to look upon a mountain of the seeds of the everyday,
difficult tomorrows to be sifted through and lived,
while time goes with agonizing slowness,
fatal for the lonely;
to gather, and with a clear eye, for
one mistake leads back to the beginning,
back to despair.

But she does as she must:
she rearranges her broken life and
lifts it to the sky,
"I have gathered the grains into neat, perfect piles."

Unfazed, Aphrodite demands the golden fleece
and Psyche trembles, terrified
of the wrath of the rams.

But Zeus, hearing her prayers,
sends forth the mighty eagle of perspective which,
with its gift of perfect sight, guides Psyche to triumph:
Anger dims once the sun sets, she whispers again and again
while, with patience borne only of love, she awaits twilight
for the rams to graze by the tranquil river,
and she gathers the precious thread.

Golden fleece offered with trembling hands,
Psyche is next commanded to bring a flask
from the Waters of Forgetfulness--
but how, she cries, how does one forget?
Forgiving alone was difficult enough.
Yet she sets to task, battling with her sorrows, listening
to the voices she had once drowned
and now letting them flow into wisdom;
she confronts a montage of pain,
finally seeing what they had to teach--

until she had filled the flask,
until she had forgotten.

But now, the last test of courage:
to brave death and return alive.
"I have done enough," was her woeful cry,
but the brave will brave love, and so we find
Psyche in Hades' realm, aided by the knowledge
offered by the compassionate:
"Coins for Charon to row you through The River Styx,
bread for three-headed Cerberus".

Curbing fear into her fist, Psyche plunges the impossible:
to be human and face the harrowing depths of death,
to draw wisdom from one's solitude
and shine a light of hope--however little, however flickering
between faith and despair--
in the darkness of a wretched life,
to grasp the hands of grace.

She emerges from a death-like sleep
and there, Eros waits,
home to all the dreams she had woven
as child, girl, woman.
"Awaken, My Love."

Four tasks, Psyche had fulfilled,
and the prize was immortality:
For love gifts us with the wings of courage,
placing the sky within reach.

Piano Sonata in C# Minor, "Moonlight", Ludvig Van Beethoven

It must be night, else I must be dreaming.

So, it is night. So, it is that the moon illuminates our loneliness and propels them round and round, brushing our arms and touching our cheeks, one living being to another. Our plights take flight and descend, sighing, into our ears, sending ripples of sadness across all that we do, all that we hold in our empty hands--hovering above half-finished coffee cups, grazing past barely-buried regrets, lightly touching the jagged tear in an unread letter, crossing a lamplit room teeming with stasis, swooping into hearts that plunge the unfathomable depths of suffering, echoing the unasked questions, moving past the boundaries of what can be known, swirling gloriously, unheeding of conclusions, yet, shining a light upon them.

If only we had eyes to see.

Souls tremble in containment, reaching for edges of moonlight, never rising quite enough to touch.

Wine Glass

long-stemmed--your
neck, my eyes
graze, as you take a sip
from a corner
of the wine's mouth
and something spills
inside me:
sobriety, perhaps,
melting, a rivulet
trickling down,
and all around, the world dews
into haze, fluid
crystal
I turn
into that glass--

Variation on a Theme: Eros

Faceless, you arrive. Breathless from your journey--through mountains and pain, across sorrow, a sea--you arrive. It is evening and the moon stands watch, beautiful and indifferent.

Underneath the bower of violet wisteria, I stand in silence, listening to your footsteps. Heavy, at first, then lighter, and lighter. The echoes of night fade upward, to the stars. I hold my breath--let nothing disrupt the sound of your arrival--and look toward your direction. Light, my love, so much light there is.

Faceless, you have arrived. I become Psyche, with neither lamp, nor doubts.

Everywhere

I have dreamed of this: the sound of your footfalls, that voice, calling out, "Love?", the door opening, the sight of you, that look on your face. Even the sunlight that falls on you looks familiar. The glow in your eyes. This violent beating of my heart. The warmth of this morning wraps me in its familiar glow--surely, I have been here before?

You have tiptoed into my life and found your way into everything I love and hold dear--my favorite poetry; the pages of my books; the fragrant steam from the coffee cup; the trickle of sweat down the back of my arm; the strains of melancholy and the bursts of emotion in the songs that I love; the light that streams through the curtains; the knowledge that I am surrounded by windows; the door that I open to let you in. My heart is well-trained to see you everywhere. I only have to glance anywhere to see you there. 

You are in the prayer of gratitude I throw out into the void. You are the seal of contentment on my lips. Your presence laces the surfaces of all that surround me. You are the center of whatever day it is I am in. 

You are the sea I want to keep coming back to, the shore I dream of taking long walks on. You are the face of the sky, the light of the moon, the map of stars whose vivid shine I trace with my eyes. 

It feels as if we have been everywhere, my love. And yet we have only just begun. 

Hours

Morning 

The coffee is almost done and the house smells wonderful, just as you said it would. You are asleep and I am watching you, tracing your profile with my eyes--those remarkable lines, cuts, corners, turns and drops, all pathways leading somewhere where you are you, and which I want to spend the rest of my life exploring. You once expressed worry over making sure I would not get restless--what you can't seem to see is that your presence is all I need to keep me feeling alive. You could spend the entire day fixing the roof, or mooning over a wall, for all I care--as long as I know you are here, I will be all right, all will be all right. Time and place become irrelevant. Anywhere is everywhere. You can paint anything the color of magic. 

Afternoon 

Nothing like an afternoon drive along the highway with you to remind me that we are on our way to something beautiful--no, in fact, we are already here, traveling the road of our lives together, our souls entwined as if they were always meant to grasp each other. The approaching twilight doesn't seem so daunting anymore. How could it when I have you here beside me? The light in your eyes mirrors the core of the sun, magnificent in its blanket of bursting hues--all made more beautiful because you are here to light up the dusk for the rest of my life. Do I dare dream of a rest-of-my-life with you? Ah, but meeting you alone has already been too wondrous for words. Surely, a girl can dream. 

Evening 

Outside, the shades of dusk render the world mellow and calm. Evening is well on its way somewhere, people are on their way home, lost in the rush of things. Here, you are reading the lines of a poem I love, a little baffled at the verses but reciting the words, anyway. My heart is in my throat, amazed at the newness you show me each day, afloat in the clouds because no one has read me poetry before, when poetry makes up half the loves of my life. The sound of your voice feels so much like home, like warmth, like all the things I have loved and will always love. What is this sorcery you possess that makes me feel weak and so alive, at the same time? 

Night

The threat of time forgotten, we dance to the beat and words of a song we both love. There is nothing quite like the feeling of your arms wrapped around me, your hands caressing the small of my back, your breath against my ears, my neck, my shoulders. I touch my face to yours and a feeling of fulfillment washes over me when I see your eyes closed in rapture and peace, all at once, because your happiness is mine, too. You've often said you will make me fall in love with you everyday. And because you are the man with the golden touch, my love, and you can do anything you put your mind to--you have done exactly that. 

Hours

I want to be the ray of sunlight that slants across your cheek, whose warmth and light you wake up to. I want to be the window that lets in that light. 

I want to be the door that lets you into the porch where a mild breeze stirs and touches you; I want to be that breeze. The view of the sea that welcomes you each morning--I want to be that view. I want to be that sea. I want to be that morning.

I want to be the cool afternoon wind that caresses you as you walk along the shore. I want to be the sand beneath your feet. I want to be the horizon you look toward, I want to be the thoughts you think when you look at that horizon, watching the sunset. I want to be that sunset.

I want to be the sky you look up to when the stars start coming out. I want to be the constellations you look for; I want to be that one last, lost star that will complete your blanket of light. 

I want to be the moonlight reflected on the water, calming the tempests in your mind. I want to be the calm you seek, the moonbeam that kisses your eyelids close, the music in the waves that lull you to sleep. I want to be those waves.

The night that encloses you in its embrace as you lay dreaming--I want to be that night, I want to be that dream.

Variation on a Theme: Daphne and Apollo

She turns. 

Yet again,

that swivel to the back,

the weakening in her middle, heart

succumbing to the longing

for sight, the way a flower

seeks the sun that gives it 

life even as it, too, burns

its way through the liquid

pathways, fire portending 

danger. 

Her arms, flailing, exasperation 

manifesting in the force, frail

and brutal, all at once--

how much longer will the feet hold

this run, this escape to nowhere 

from the very thing she holds dear 

and yet shuns? Briefly, she pauses,

a slight billow in the breeze,

a figure swaying, in-between,

praying for elsewhere--

And he of swift limbs poised

to capture, reaches out with all the strength

he can muster, encircles

her slight paleness with his embrace,

solid and pure, grasping, locking

her length with his, pleading, tenderness

and force in the confused whirl

of the moment

which he knows is his, 

for now she is looking, at last,

in his eyes, a sad sweetness, her soul

reaching out for his:

Anchor me. 

Tonight, I, too, can write the saddest lines

And when I think of violins, I will think of you. You, waiting, as I walk toward you. You, smiling, your hands on your waist, holding promises of yet unseen blue skies and beautiful shorelines, of yet unknown pleasures shared in coffee cups and delightful lunches, in laughter, in conversations. 

When I think of trees, I will think of you leading me to one, trying to help me climb one. I will think of you leaping to cling to a branch, hooting and laughing, happy. I will think of you and me, falling in love with trees together. I will think of you reciting the names of shrubs and plants and flowers. I will think of you giving tea another name, though I will not remember the name, just you, saying it.

When I think of stars, I will think of you, gazing up at the night sky, tracing the constellations with your fingers. I will think of you and I, wrapped in a blanket, warm despite the cold, never more alive despite the hour, the dark. I will think of you, evermore my brightest star, always gleaming. I will think of you, always far away.

When I think of the sun, I will think of you, my sun--ever lighting up my life, shining on my most sought-after dreams. I will think of sunlight slanting across my most peaceful afternoons, peaceful because you are there, because you are you. I will think of bright, fragrant mornings, of clouds we once looked down at, of twilights I am no longer afraid of, because your light was there to ward off the gloom from the approaching dark. 

When I think of elsewheres, I will think of you. And my dreams will be alive where you are, they will go on unfolding, I will live where you are, my voice in the silence that will follow you everywhere. 

Always elsewhere, my love, ever elsewhere, never here. 

Afternoons

The fire is nice and warm and I'm snuggled in my writing chair, my feet up, my main character about to enter his moment of epiphany. You are sneaking up from behind me, planning some antic, thinking I wouldn't notice. 

"Oh no, you don't, mister," I say in a singsong voice, and I feel you freeze. Then, a snicker. I go on typing, laughing inwardly. You walk back to the couch and start strumming your guitar. "You know, if you don't stop being naughty this rain is never gonna stop."

You give me a sheepish look and say, "sorry, love," with that lopsided grin of yours. You look like a very tall 8-year old right now, cute as a baseball cap. You start playing a Jack Johnson song and hum to it.

We had closed shop quite early on account of the nonstop rain and the date today; barely a handful of people would want to be outdoors on an extended downpour like this, anyway. We figured going home would be best and we braved the rain, sharing my small umbrella, which so conveniently snapped as we were running, and so we got soaked, laughing as we raced toward your waiting truck. You had kissed me after shutting your door, hair dripping and all, wet and gorgeous and charming the wits out of me like you always do. 

"Love?" You pause your playing.

"Yes, love?" I, frowning down at my screen, trying to decide if the girl should get ice cream or not, and if it's an essential scene, in the first place. It's almost 6 and I haven't made much progress. 

"I love you," you, "do you love me, hm?"

"You know I do. Now be a good boy and go on playing that lovely little tune--but what is that hideous smell, love?" My voice rises a little in panic.

"Oh, shit, no!" You scram to the kitchen and groan loudly. "My roast beef! Argh!"

I leave my spot and walk toward you, hugging you from behind. "It's ok love, we'll figure something out," I say, staring at the smoky carcass of a once-beautiful cake of beef, now charred, beyond saving. With a pot holder, you take it out of the oven and throw it into the bin, shaking your head, looking at me like a contrite little boy. "Dinner is ruined, love."

I plant a kiss on your cheek and tell you, "I don't care. We can get buy another one tomorrow and do it all again. For now, let's have omelettes!" 

You scratch the back of your head and smile. "Eggs, it is, then."

I take a peek through the curtain and see that twilight has long gone--evening is here, and I think to myself life can't get better than this--the storm, your burnt dinner, the warmth of you and I all around. I shut a window and hum a tune. 

Meanwhile, you are rummaging through the fridge, hellbent on starting a new feast.