Negros Museum, June 13 by Carlomar Arcangel Daoana

We could have been in different place

                at that moment when we were listening

to Frank Sinatra sing I'm Walking Behind you

                from a gramophone, the museum guy spinning

the turntable with the exact speed of 45 rpm—

                something he practiced, he'd say to his guests,

one the song ends. We could have looked

                at each other tenderly as Sinatra crooned

into our ears, remembering the time when

                we were still strangers to each other

during that night on the ship. Memory

                would have rolled effortlessly—cloth,

or ocean as we recognized the luck

                sweeping us together to an appointment

of what seemed to me the greatest story of our lives. But instead, we were silent,

the heat of the day was uncomfortable,

                and the needle stuttered on the record

which we let go for the needlessness of it

                Looking back, I realize everything of it

was perfect—your eyes shy at the briefest

                touching with mine, the way we avoided

this love which was meant to be bigger

                than us, following us towards the daylight

blessing the corridors of a beautiful world—

                in a way not one of us could ever predict.

(Source: One Hundred Love Poems by Gemino Abad and Alfred Yuson)