For P

Most of the time, I am puzzled
With the three letters
That composes your name.
They seem to be a key,
An oracle to open a door
That will lead you to a box
Full of mysteries,
A riddle revealed and yet,
The answer is still waiting to be discovered.

What kind of a girl are you?
Pious yet sometimes cruel;
Holy yet most of the time carnal;
Believer, but most of the time doubts;
And a lover but most of the time
Abandons the arms that cradled you
During the stormy and scary nights

I have to admit—
You are a story that I could not understand
The letters are arranged in a way
That you need to calculate—
Sometimes add;
Sometimes subtract;
Sometimes multiply;
But most of the time, divide.
There is a need to reanalyze some facts
In order to segregate them
From my (and your) own fiction

On the other hand,
Despite the confusion—
I am still challenged to answer
Your riddles, your puzzles
As I have wanted to go into the depths of your soul
(And I will let you explore mine)
Because I want to love you,
Unlike the others
That they only love you
During the nights, where you are
Doing your thing as a wild woman in bed—
But there is no carnality in my intentions:
Only pure intentions,
Although I have to admit
Even the word intention,
Love and other words
Remain ambiguous to me.

Antipolo City; 15 June 2011


One thought on “For P

  1. and that a riddle would always be a puzzle,
    when mazes lock together
    the truth is hiding…

    i am never the saint
    nor the sinner;
    never bearing the right
    nor the wrong answers.
    and i never intend to be
    the world to you,

    because thy heart will know
    that love ends


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