I pack my bag and lock the door. Behind me will always be an aftereffect of typhoon; a merrymaking that only happens here.
This time, the carpet of Plumeria lies there undisturbed. They will be swept away later on. And so will I.
The train is not jam-packed today. I sit down without a care. Somebody sits in front of me.
She is the cover girl. Her lips and eyes are the prominent features of her face.
I am not studying them – just staring. I remember the complex calculus exercises I gaped at.
There is a big gap between her physicality and the thoughts that flash before my eyes.
. . .
We love the breeze tonight.
The moon peers over Acasia trees.
She goes merry-go-round with her white skirt. It blooms like Plumeria.
She blushes as she notices my coy amusement.
I feel her soft hands. Feeble.
A walk in the park.