And hopefully we find ourselves in a city apartment we can afford, With windows large enough to welcome the sunlight to saunter in and join us for breakfast; We'd bask in these slow, quiet Saturday mornings advertised by gentrified developers whose names sound too stiff to our provincial tongues Never mind the down-size, as long as there is space to place our jars of salt, grain, and sugar, our books and knickknacks, maybe a twin-sized mattress, and if we’re lucky — a pet bed — We can call it home Here every square inch will be maximised to hold room for things lost to a realtor’s eye; All awkward cuts and corners will be filled with unmeasured banter foreign to an eavesdropping outsider; In a familiar flick, shelves and cupboards will become portals to multiverses — Inviting friends and other lifeforms to the warmth of our kitchen thick with the fragrance of squash simmered in coconut milk and shrimp paste But while we’re still saving for that downpayment, I don’t really mind repairing the weathered flat doing its best to comfort us for the hours lost in Metro Manila commute. Maybe rearranging the furniture can cheer up the house gnomes who keep us company when the other is timezones away. And what about the regular calls we receive from elderly neighbours eager to sell the day’s catch and wares — Who would now open the awning for them and beckon them home? Really, my love, we don't need much. It is enough I get to dream with you on that single-bed safely rafting us through torrents of life transitions. Home is where we are.
therapoetic 