Floodgates

One SMS and the floodgates open.

"Balita?" you texted me last night, like you've always done but not recently. One bleep and a thousand repressed memories escape.

I called.

"Couldn't resist," I confided to Ruth.

We talked about your job and its nightmarish schedule. You brought up that plan about going to this spanking new resort in Lucban ("La pa masyado tao 'dun," you told me. But what's the significance of it being "unexploited/private." But I liked the idea, tempted by the idea.). I said I couldn't possible take off from work this weekend or the next because I will be having a team-building seminar. We talked about my job ("'kala n'yo lang malaki pera pero wala rin," I told you.) I invited you to come over to the city since you've been spending some boring time in the boondocks (You said you would probably in June if you have an important errand to attend to here).

For nearly an hour, we talked about this irrelevant consequences of our being: your job and mine, Pahiyas, the long hours at work, the desire to travel.

But beneath these, I would've wanted to tell you how much I've been missing you. How I want to feel your body next to mine because that makes me comfortable. Or how I want to kiss your lips while I caress your hair. How I want you.

And how I want to tell you I want you.

One text, and against all these desires, I am powerless.