It’s not even cold.
The rain is over,
leaving nothing
but the vestiges of heaven tears,
kissing the wet cheeks
of my rooftops.

It’s not even loud.
The thunders stopped.
I hear only the quiet.
Just the quiet.
No lingering heartbreak
ringing in my ears.

It’s not even sad.
The clouds have decided
to show their silver linings.
The sun plays a game of hide and go seek
every now and then
making the blades of grass dance.

It’s not even tragic, anymore.
The way I held on to you
was the way I held on
to a security blanket
I stopped needing
but felt familiar with.

It’s not even love, anymore.
It’s taken the form of something else.
Something slightly less painful,
something slightly dull,
something more forgettable,
something less valuable.

It’s not even the salient point of this poem.
It’s not even about you.
It’s not even about us.
It’s not even who I was, with you.
It’s just a pit stop.
Just a chore.

It’s my mind on a refuel –
recalling the feeling
but not the boy.
My mind visits you
to remember what I want.
But I think of another face.

Published by Nessie Quiambao